Build You Up

By Alison Roh Park If it were not so scarred from your accidental
rages—uptown, upstate—I would have rested
on the cinder block of your chest.

Daisy Cutter

By Camille T. Dungy Pause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.

By Jericho Brown Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God

By Tara Betts Quiet girl found a voice mama could not quell
inside Nutbush City Limits. The baby
blasted beyond timid Annie Mae into Tina

By Randall Horton The gavel
The splintered body
The red-neck guards

By Philip Metres In the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis

By Ocean Vuong My grandmother kisses
as if bombs are bursting in the backyard,
where mint and jasmine lace their perfumes

By Jeffrey McDaniel On the red-eye from Seattle, a two-year-old
in the seat behind me screeches

his miniature guts out.

By Francisco Aragón Despite the absent head (whose eyes

were the green of apples)

By Natalie Illum The first time I saw these activists turned
acrobats, I was immobilized as they arched
through hoops, twisting like DNA.