My Dead
By Arisa WhiteEverybody she died another is dead everybody
dead and AIDS of AIDS my dead she is
there are more I know with the same story hiding
lips stitched hesitant to speak of someone you knew
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Arisa WhiteEverybody she died another is dead everybody
dead and AIDS of AIDS my dead she is
there are more I know with the same story hiding
lips stitched hesitant to speak of someone you knew
By Nickole BrownWhen I press my face to the painted box,
the sound is
not buzzing, is not
a mob of wings.
By Jessica JacobsArkansas is aspic with last-gasp summer, making running
like tunneling: the trail’s air a gelatin
of trapped trajectories.
By Deborah A. MirandaWife and dogs have gone to bed.
I sit here with the front door open.
Crickets sing patiently, a long lullaby
in lazy harmony. Rain falls
By Tanya Papernyclick on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
By Danielle BadraWe are not born to be barons of wealth. We
are soft spoken wordsmiths, not soldiers. We are
not broken by hardship or hate. We are not
By Ellen BassToday is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
By Joshua Jennifer EspinozaLike light but
in reverse we billow.
We turn a corner
and make the hills
By JP Howardblack women we be trying to hold worlds
on our backs, in our hearts without fail
some days we fail at perfection
By Sylvia Beatofor years you told no one
how you cried yourself to sleep
after the doctor held your hand