Across the Street from the Whitmore Home for Girls, 1949
By Rachel McKibbensThe Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Rachel McKibbensThe Mad Girls climb the wet hill,
breathe the sharp air through sick-green lungs.
The Wildest One wanders off like an old cow
By Melanie GrahamShe appears again, 2-year-old riding her hip,
grief so great he can see through her birkha, past Qualaday,
into the kitchen, his mother nurturing chicken
in popping grease.
By Reginald Harriswalk long enough
with a pebble in your shoe
and walking with a pebble becomes
normal
By Rashida James-Saadiyawe scatter
dodge words that rip into flesh
hide from clenched fist
By Patricia MonaghanAfter the nightly news and four martinis
he quietly begins to draw the inner workings
of the bomb, knowing the explosion needed
By Jeffrey McDanielOn the red-eye from Seattle, a two-year-old
in the seat behind me screeches
his miniature guts out.
By Fady JoudahWhen the shooting began
Everyone ran to the trucks
Grabbed whatever their backs needed
And made for the trucks