Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Javier ZamoraHis grandma made the best pupusas, the counselor wrote next to Stick-Figure Abuelita
(I’d colored her puffy hair black with a pen).
Earlier, Dad in his truck: “always look gringos in the eyes.”
Mom: “never tell them everything, but smile, always smile.”
By Sally Wen MaoI’m sick of speaking for women who’ve died
Their stories and their disappearances
bludgeon me in my sleep
By Hieu Minh NguyenIf things happen
the way they are supposed to
my mother will die before me.
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By Ruth Irupé SanabriaMy grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.
By Amanda GormanThere’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
By Purvi ShahYou had a name no one
could hold between their
teeth. So they pronounced
By Esther LinAfter learning his appointment was canceled
and his senior bus won’t come for another two
hours my father calls from his waiting room
By Lauren CampThe soup cooks for an hour while vultures and buzzards pluck the market.
My father wipes his forehead with a white cloth.
Once, each day began with khubz and samoon
