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By Bao Phi
A small handle with fiber-optic cables springing like snakes from Medusa’s head. Press a button and tiny colored dots at the end of the translucent strings would light. The day after the Shrine Circus, all the kids in my class had them, waving them.
By Emmy Pérez
They are the ones who were told their children
were taken to bathe—and not returned. They
are the ones whose nursing babies and toddlers
were forced to wean and left in wet diapers.
By Kit Yan
They are giving out Turkeys at the Public Assistance office,
Wrapped in plastic,
The legs folded in, balled for convenience,
You must have had to write your name on a raffle ticket,
I came too late to see the process.
By Kay Ulanday Barrett
In summertime, the women
in my family spin sagoo
like planets, make
even saturn blush.
By Tanya Paperny
click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
By Terisa Siagatonu
The evening news helicopters compete for the best camera angle
above the water, fighting to find anything worthy of coverage.
A floating high chief. A baby’s arm flattened by a coconut tree. Anything.
Even the Titanic was enormous enough to leave remnants of itself
By Katherine E. Young
This is the poem meant for this mo(u)rning,
now the winds have died down,
the dogwood’s unclenched its frightened fists,
and the morning’s calling
By Jonathan Mendoza
Example: I place my hand in a pool of salt.
Some stays. Some seeps into my skin.
Everything goes exactly where it’s supposed to.
By M. Soledad Caballero
He says, they will not take us.
They want the ones who love
another god, the ones whose
joy comes with five prayers and
By Ellen Bass
Today is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—