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Mahogany L. Browne

Ego-Tripp(ed)

By Mahogany L. Browne & then the poet became G_D/like
just’a rolling his tongue everywhere
like G O D must’ve
when the earth got birth(ed) & even
Susanna Lang

Kitchen, Donetsk

By Susanna Lang She had planned to offer peaches with the tea.

August was warm; the fruit had ripened to perfection.

She’d placed two paring knives on the cutting board,
set out the teapot with nasturtiums painted on the side.
Karen Finneyfrock

The Newer Colossus

By Karen Finneyfrock My feet have been wilting in this salt-crusted cement
since the French sent me over on a steamer in pieces.
I am the new Colossus, wonder of the modern world,
a woman standing watch at the gate of power.
Vincent Toro

Nonstop from Fruitvale to Ursa Major: Threnody for Los Desaparecidos* of The United States

By Vincent Toro A lung lit like diesel
is not fable or fodder.

Is not sewage siphoned from stern
and starboard. Cuffs, not slapdash plums
plunge from your garden
Leslie Anne Mcilroy

forge [fawrj, fohrj]

By Leslie Anne Mcilroy (1) to form by heating and hammering; beat into shape, as in the child’s back
burning, shoulders of flame, ribs of shame till she is no longer what she
was, but what you want her to be; 2) to form or make, especially by
concentrated effort, as in pride, see the girl, my girl, take credit, look what I
Kazumi Chin

The Last New Year’s Resolution

By Kazumi Chin The very last mammoth was just like the others,
except more lonely. The very last tortilla chip
makes me feel guilty.The very last line
of the poem changes everything about
Fatimah Asghar

Photo Albums

By Fatimah Asghar The names of my family members swirl
like dust in my lungs. I try to write about birds

& only pull from my pen animal skin.
My bones alive & a lament of dignified grief
Kathi Wolfe

Love at First Sight

By Kathi Wolfe In an elevator trapped
between the fifteenth and sixteenth
floor of her apartment building,
Sunday morning, Elizabeth, her cane
Ellen McGrath Smith

Spelling Down

By Ellen McGrath Smith I wanted bad to advance to Washington, D. C.
I wanted to be anyone but me.
The nun who had trained me for the spelling bee
needed a ride, and I was so worried all the way across town
Thomas Hill

Clocks

By Thomas Hill This poem is in video format.
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