Set the Garden on Fire

By Chen Chen My friend’s new neighbors in the suburbs
are planting a neat row of roses
between her house & theirs.

To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian

By Ross Gay Tumbling through the
city in my
mind without once
looking up

By Juan Carlos Galeano In the north we hunted many buffalo
whose lard warmed us all winter.

But in the jungle they told us that to bring more light

By Gretchen Primack and there was a dog, precisely the colors of autumn,
asleep between two trunks by the trail.
But it was a coyote, paws pink

By Joy Harjo This city is made of stone, of blood, and fish.
There are Chugatch Mountains to the east
and whale and seal to the west.

By Natalie Diaz In the Kashmir mountains,
my brother shot many men,
blew skulls from brown skins,

By Jamaal May Hold a pomegranate in your palm,
imagine ways to split it, think of the breaking
skin as shrapnel. Remember granada

By Jose Padua All the out of business auto body shops
on this slow highway, all the abandoned
buildings with peeling paint, the vacant

By Jaime Lee Jarvis Was it the rush of words in that language
we understood only when we cocked our heads,
speaking on the slant, slurring our way

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