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Myra Sklarew Myra Sklarew reads "Exchange" at the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
Julie Enszer The painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—
I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.
I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.
Abdul Ali My father and I run into each other at the edge of Lower Manhattan,
World Trade Center, where there’s a movie house.
We tiptoe down the slope, making our way to our seats.
Leona Sevick Instead, I spotted our mother in a tiny
chair in the back row, her blue-black head
shining unnaturally. She was dressed in
Naomi Ayala Two blocks away
where yellow cabs
zip by without stopping
Myra Sklarew In the mirror of infinite regress
go back. Go back to Vietnam. To a man
who can spot a trip wire fine as a hair,
Truth Thomas Shayna reads the Word and takes
the story of that first miracle as
serious as unpaid electric bills in
Meg Eden I look for a man's hand inside
the folds of my purse, and find
a pattern that recalls a finger print, the way
Joseph Ross In a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
Kim Roberts O augury seeker,
know and be aware...
In the book of divination,