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By Angela María Spring
Though the jam did not set, great chunks of purple-black in jars
placed as offerings behind the kitchen counter butcher block
homemade experiment by my Central American-born mamá, who warned
us to keep a stern eye out, said you invade, take over swiftly
and she was right as our desert—so unlike the humid, temperate climes from which
you first emerged—urges you grow fast to claim any water to be found,
yet as a tree you are migrant/immigrant like us so of course Tucson
banned your presence as Arizona pulled Latinx books from schools
By Hakim Bellamy
No one woke up, that Saturday, mourning. / No one woke up that Saturday morning with intentions of becoming a back to school vigil. / No one woke up not expecting to finish out a sophomore year...that had barely be- // gun.
By Sherwin Bitsui
Father's dying ceased
when he refunded this ours
for fused hands plaster-coated
By Lauren Camp
The soup cooks for an hour while vultures and buzzards pluck the market.
My father wipes his forehead with a white cloth.
Once, each day began with khubz and samoon
By Veronica Golos
Have I stepped back in time, or forward?
A graveled road, hovering flags, the sound
of waves against chunk rock -- and
voices billow into birds,
By Arthur Sze
Arthur Sze performs the poem "Criss Cross" at the 2010 Split This Rock Poetry Festival.
By Arthur Sze
The bow of a Muckleshoot canoe, blessed
with eagle feather and sprig of yellow cedar,
is launched into a bay.