29 Men

By Heather Davis The lights in your home channel 29 men, their
soot stained clothes, last breaths, crystalline sweat
let loose on black rock

Antebellum

By Gregory Pardlo Unfinished, the road turns off the fill
from the gulf coast, tracing the bay, to follow
the inland waterway.

By Chris August America, don’t we love like oil?
Don’t our slippery arms
Pave the pores of those who need us?

By Camille T. Dungy Pause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.

By Jody Bolz Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.

By Jericho Brown Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God

By Lori Desrosiers I was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.

By Randall Horton The gavel
The splintered body
The red-neck guards

By Philip Metres In the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis

By Remica L. Bingham I enter to find all the students in uniform
occupying a small room.