poppies are not (Enough
By Daniela ElzaI drink a blood sunset down Cardinal Avenue.
my shoes soaked poppies my mind quiet as
a book with a bomb in its mouth.
Search Results
American Herstory
By celeste doaksTell them it's always under attack. Tell them there's no cure
for the disease, or answer to the riddle. Tell them you asked many
before you, some who won, some who lost.
Commitment Otra Vez
By Carmen CalatayudSome generations ago,
you were a Zapatista
inside your great-grandmother's
Skintight
By Stephen ZeranceMy father hands me gifts he bought Christmas Eve:
an extra-large broadcloth and thirty-four waist khakis.
I dress different from the boys at school. My shirts fall
Special Effects
By Merna HechtThis morning I am remembering you, how as honored guest
you talked with my students who had recently arrived in America
from refugee camps where borders are stacked with blood and bullets.
Faith
By Tim SeiblesPicture a city
and the survivors: from their
windows, some scream.
The Sign
By Jonathan B. Tuckerpardon our appearance
as we grow to better serve you
says the sign on the fence
Notes on a Mass Stranding
By Kamilah Aisha MoonHuge dashes in the sand, two or three
times a year they swim like words
in a sentence toward the period
barreras
By María Luisa ArroyoMami called us away from the roach trap line
where novice factory workers, fresh from the island,
and I, fresh from Germany, poked
Mess Hall
By Solmaz SharifYour knives tip down
in the dish rack
of the replica plantation home