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Hala Alyan
It's beautiful to speak for her; she's dead. I sit in the scalding bath. I like to change my skin. This is my sanity: salt and bubbles. To outlive is to become mockingbird: She was, she was.

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Southern Humanities Review

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Ginny Threefoot
When my ancestors began the work of me, I was already old. I was only a child, I swam as an eel, I tallied on fingers, measuring everything.

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Under a Warm Green Linden

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bpNichol
A digital poem by bpNichol

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Coach House Books

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Margo Tamez
Protector, Enemy Slayer, went to the stronghold place                     you know this today as the Guadalupe Mountains, over there.

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Turtle Point Press

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Alina Stefanescu
I meet the birds on their terrain, the gray of. Chimney swifts smudged, sifted from clouds like feathered cinders, all is blurred or wisps of smoke, an attendance.

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Kenyon Review

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Asiya Wadud

the ferries encumber their own weight. they pass each other at close range. the unlikely vessels transmit their cargo. all the bodies carry on.

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Nightboat Books

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Mihaela Moscaliuc
I waddle among pelicans of grief. They waddle through me, our throat sacs stapled shut. I stir the third soup, lovage and thirteen bean . . .

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New Letters

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Cynthia Dewi Oka
A tall man wipes ashes from his lips. “I’ll pay you,” he says. “If you’re worthy.” From the lamp of his skull, a steeple rises. Roaches seek warmth in the dead bells, while cherry blossoms burst their green corsets.

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Northwestern University Press

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Deborah Warren
Earth is his occupation, and the mole works the turf in his native breaststroke, swimming hallways into the sod—a geonaut

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Paul Dry Books

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Jorie Graham
They would not stop, resolution of will and helplessness, as the eye is helpless when the image forms itself, upside-down, backward, driving up into the mind, and the world unfastens itself from the deep ocean of the given. . . .

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Princeton University Press

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