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
Rios Montt
By Nancy C. OtterThe soldier who stopped my father's truck
at the Chiapas border crossing in 1983
might have worked for that man
Migrant Earth
By Deema K. ShehabiI could tell you that listening is made for the ashen sky,
and instead of the muezzin's voice, which lingers
like weeping at dawn,
Laundry
By Alicia OstrikerJust finished folding laundry. There's the news. A slender prisoner, ankles shackled, nude back and legs striped by a brown substance you might take for blood but which probably is feces, hair long, arms extended at shoulder level like a dancer or like Jesus, walks toward a soldier with rolled-up pants and a gun, posed legs akimbo in the tiled corridor. I cannot say from the image if the soldier is smiling, too few pixels to tell.
Rubber Dollie
By Scott HightowerLike a dancer covered in nothing
but white powder, then sponged
with coarse brown makeup;
Other Mothers
By Persis M. KarimTheir sons who speak of a cause
As if it were their two feet
beneath them. That they could hold an idea
The Day Obama Decided
By Margit BermanThe day Obama decided enough was enough
and turned off his TV and slept well for the first time since 2007,
and Nancy Pelosi decided enough was enough
Always Here
By Rich Villarlacking a proper entrance
into a poem
about Arizona Senate Bill 1070