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By Leslie McIntosh
Imal, direct action protest visible from satellite is time travel, is binge-watching the future. Your optic nerves can reach where no lung has emptied, and speak back with authority, so what is the meaning of witness? Imal, when I see your lover’s face, I am seeing what it has become, in spite of you, and everyone. And what does he see?
By Shabnam Piryaei
a young man desperately buries himself under damp leaves while helicopters hunt him police laugh as he tries to hide in the foliage a neighbor with a device to eavesdrop on scanners catches this tidbit
By Rasha Abdulhadi
daughter of a palestinian that i am,
when i see a bloc of young people holding the street
it seems i was born with a rock in my hand
against a line of police in battle gear—
and i’ve found the world expects that’s who i am.
By sam sax
sometimes i wonder what happens to people’s hands when they disappear
in their pockets. of course, my rational brain knows they go on being hands
but there’s still the question. i wonder if object permanence isn’t the biggest
trick of them all, a scam, a way to ground the brain in its thin bath of liquid
By Julian Randall
Cue the Anthony Hamilton/and name me a mansion/tell everyone there is space here/if you
believe in the reincarnated/I am already somewhere/that somebody has gone/
By Raquel Salas Rivera
los blancos en sus casas lloran
porque han tenido que desahuciar a sus huéspedes.
los apellidos y las propiedades lloran
porque han quemado los títulos de propiedad
de los gusanos.
***
the whites cry in their houses
because they’ve had to evict the guests.
the last names and the properties cry
because they’ve burned
the worms’ deeds.
By Ely Shipley
The neck of the guitar stretches
out, every other fret painted with a sharp
dot or dash, flash after flash
of reflected light, marble or pearl, the shape
of a fingerprint, ...
By Britteney Black Rose Kapri
don’t sister girl me or giiiiirl me or sis me or girlfriend me or hey bitch me. or any other slang you think me and other Black woman call ourselves when you’re not around.
By Tara Hardy
They call it dissociation.
I call it THE NINE (children)
who live inside me.
Each of them encased
in amber, frozen in a mosquito-pose
By Rasheed Copeland
It took us this long to slow our dying
down to a languid and sensible pace
wherein the sugar might claim each our limbs