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Paul Hlava Ceballos

To the Moreno Valley Cop who Pointed a Gun at Me

By Paul Hlava Ceballos Say it to me again, I dare you,
any small word, slipped through a sidearm’s
sight—I am not a child anymore.
Opal Moore

Spring Mix, for Ahmaud

By Opal Moore A small bird built a secret nest
beneath my balcony. There must be
hatchlings there, out of view.
She flies back and forth, small prey
in her beak.

Some kind of wren, I think.
Small, brown and quick. No time for
singing midday. Duty
is her instinct.
Sacha Marvin Hodges

billie holiday, handcuffed to her deathbed

By Sacha Marvin Hodges I have a fear
so metal
it makes traffic
Roya Marsh

i flipped a table once.

By Roya Marsh cups, plates, scattered
spaghetti massacre on laps.
all the restaurant alert
&this ga'damn tv
sayin' WE lost!

white girls vanish
the whole world grit they teeth,
but a black girl's disappearance
warrants city wide curfews;
a second silencing
60 black girls ghost //
in the nation's capital
&my phone never rang about it!
Faylita Hicks

After the George Floyd Protests, My Strange Dream

By Faylita Hicks Crawling out from between the legs of a woman
with my name still wetly slathered across her chin,

I cradle the lewd silk of our venom
up against the hot swell of my caged chest, wade out

through her front door, into the murky billows
of the damned and the damnable,
Saretta Morgan

One Scenario

By Saretta Morgan More than a decade after being sentenced I share the news with my mom.
Ashna Ali

Social Distance Theory

By Ashna Ali On an assemblage of screens on another firework evening
Ruthie Gilmore reminds us that abolition is not recitation.
Cintia Santana

For My Cousin Manny Who Died in Prison

By Cintia Santana inside
a cell
a heart

(my cousin’s)

inside
his heart
(inside
a cell)
a cluster
of cells

arrested
Dasha Kelly Hamilton

Hope is a Bruise

By Dasha Kelly Hamilton Paintball pellets batter shoulders
and thighs at 190 miles per hour
I count the purplish bruises and
smile at the post vision of us toasting
Carlos Andrés Gómez

Ghosts of Abolition

By Carlos Andrés Gómez whisper through tear gas—
remind of the original
patrols, ruddy-cheeked
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