Ma Mere n’a Jamais eu des ailes (My momma never had wings)
By Pages MatamMa Mere n'a Jamais eu des ailes
My momma never had wings
But she could tap dance on hurricanes
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American Herstory
By celeste doaksTell them it's always under attack. Tell them there's no cure
for the disease, or answer to the riddle. Tell them you asked many
before you, some who won, some who lost.
Skintight
By Stephen ZeranceMy father hands me gifts he bought Christmas Eve:
an extra-large broadcloth and thirty-four waist khakis.
I dress different from the boys at school. My shirts fall
barreras
By María Luisa ArroyoMami called us away from the roach trap line
where novice factory workers, fresh from the island,
and I, fresh from Germany, poked
How to write a poem, according to Souha Bechara
By Zein El-AmineSit in their circle.
Don't let your eyes linger
on any object in the room.
Stewing
By DaMaris B. HillI dream of hounds. Their teeth loose in my veins.
Their howls consume me. They growl and feast.
She whispers not to run. I can't refrain.
How Manifestos Are Made
By Noah Arhm ChoiIf I fail my mouth this story plays again.
Back home he yanks mama's mouth
round into screams, burns
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
Across the Street from the Whitmore Home for Girls, 1949
By Rachel McKibbensThe Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
