Loss is an art, traversing one world to the next
By Purvi ShahThe mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
Search Results
factory work: made in china.
By Meg EdenI look for a man's hand inside
the folds of my purse, and find
a pattern that recalls a finger print, the way
Arthritis is one thing, the hurting another
By Camille T. DungyThe poet's hands degenerate until her cup is too heavy.
You are not required to understand.
This is not the year for understanding.
Making History
By Marilyn NelsonSomebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.
I Will Not
By Kathy Engelwrite about the killing of Troy Davis or
the years he claimed innocence so many times
the words fell from his mouth like drops of honey.
Let Daylight Come (Little Rock, circa 2008)
By Antoinette BrimLet the moon untangle itself
from the clothesline, as coming daylight
diminishes its lamp to memory.
The Burn
By Naomi Shihab NyeSuch a swift lump rises in the throat when
a uniformed woman spits Throw it away!
and you tremble to comply wondering why
Portrait of Hippocrates, or Buqrat
By Kim RobertsO augury seeker,
know and be aware...
In the book of divination,
Belly Song
By Kathleen HellenI sit in the front row of
bleachers -- cheap seats for greater grief.
My son
Halim, waiting
By Kathleen O'TooleHe arrived first as a student of geology
in the bicentennial year.
He witnessed