Oil: A Love Poem

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

Prayer of the Backhanded

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 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 Joseph Ross If you leave your shoes
on the front porch
when you run

By Cornelius Eady A warning one white friend hisses
To the one standing nearest to me
At an Upper West Side newsstand.

By Martín Espada In the republic of poetry,
a train full of poets
rolls south in the rain

By Francisco Aragón Despite the absent head (whose eyes

were the green of apples)

By A.B. Spellman florene barco moved
to philadelphia &
on a visit home

By Fady Joudah When the shooting began
Everyone ran to the trucks
Grabbed whatever their backs needed
And made for the trucks