Split
By Cathy Linh CheI see my mother at thirteen
in a village so small,
it's never given a name.
Search Results
Loss is an art, traversing one world to the next
By Purvi ShahThe mehndi is leaving my hands,
brown swirls dissolving into brown skin.
Somewhere you are traveling
In a Summer of Snipers
By Joseph RossIn a summer of snipers
some men raised their hands
with fingers pressed
14 haiku
By Sonia SanchezYour limbs buried
in northern muscle carry
their own heartbeat
Making History
By Marilyn NelsonSomebody took a picture of a class
standing in line to get polio shots,
and published it in the Weekly Reader.
Uncivil
By Venus ThrashI am wearing a white tux with tails,
or a baby blue one with a ruffly shirt,
or decked out in classic black, or coolly