Migration Patterns
By Sara BrickmanOwosso, Michigan is cinder blocks
stacked on top of potato cellars and steamrolled
grey. There’s a lot of corn,
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Sara BrickmanOwosso, Michigan is cinder blocks
stacked on top of potato cellars and steamrolled
grey. There’s a lot of corn,
By Kendra DeColoIt is easy to believe
we are separate entities,
you and I
as I wait, a fish in the chasm
By Tara Shea BurkeWhen we met we fell for each other like leaves.
Behind black curtains your bedroom was always dark
except for unexpected soft-yellow walls. Your dogs
By Sonja de VriesSome days it’s in the grip of a hawk flying
up from the field, snake dangling from its mouth
writhing, writhing.
By David-Matthew BarnesI remember the rhythm at night:
Your hips wanting mine,
to grind our street-smart
By Kamilah Aisha MoonWhen you're gay in Dixie,
you're a clown of a desperate circus.
Sometimes the only way to be like daddy
By Daniel Nathan TerryThere are oaks that remember
what we would forget--the burn of the rope,
how a body takes on more weight
By Lisa L. MooreWord got out about the bad bill.
College students packed up their bikinis,
went back to Austin to tell those men why
By Theresa Davishoney
you are not being judged
because your bones decided