Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By YanyiThe teacup with the broken
handle: no longer missing.
Arriving in my mother’s hand
as she sets it down for service.
Then the dish in the air touches
down at its place on red carpet
and the Fisher Price karaoke mic
rights and repairs itself.
By Cass GarisonI adore the carnations & I adore
the trains, specifically the boxcars
with endings & beginnings I can’t
keep track of, who drag their stretched
torsos like absolute creatures around
what seems like earth’s clearest curve.
By Mia S. Williswhen the state murdered a poet
none of us slept none of us deserved to
the way we stood by with pens and phones and helpless guilt
By Samia Salibagolden shovel after karl marx, walter benjamin, richard siken, & zaina alsous
“the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living”
- karl marx
in american cemeteries the dead overlap, the
hillside ostentatious in the catholic tradition.
By Gauri Awasthimy friend is dying of an invisible darkness
it’s either depression or loneliness or plain facts:
a) Her cancer-smitten grandpa wants her to marry
b) We think she’s queer, but she can’t be sure
c) She has only two reasons to live and one of them
happens to be me.
By Simon ShiehSpeaking of History
I don’t want to say too much
[ ]
Your absence made the train car redolent of history
By Noʻu RevillaWe drink this and share the same taste with you.
We mixed the kava in the parking lot, face-to-face with you.
What becomes of children who drink war instead of water?
The rubble, a chronic obituary. I will never waste a name with you.
By féi hernandezSimultaneously I am
alone and crowded, this…
the pulsing wound of being extinct,
whole
enough for a morning forage,
yet scant for the onlookers
of lineage,
of nation,
myths in the mulberry tree.
By Hazem FahmyWhen I say “a Free Palestine in our lifetime” I mean it
is your moral duty to believe the last shekel has already been printed,
its destiny a glass frame in a museum next to a dollar,
By Paul Hlava CeballosSay it to me again, I dare you,
any small word, slipped through a sidearm’s
sight—I am not a child anymore.