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Bhion Achimba
and he said: in the war desire is a bird face-to-face with glass and she said: i'm hungry for a home and he said: even bones thirst

journal

The Paris Review

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Mihaela Moscaliuc
Why not swill fine cellar wine directly from the bottle why not waltz while mother cooks onions in the rain so they won’t pollute the inside with their crass smell

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University of Pittsburgh Press

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Megan Kim
hand-me-down nation                    fitted like a crumpled fortune                               into our ungovernable forms.

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Tinderbox Poetry Journal

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Laynie Browne
1. I stayed up later than my body 2. Determined and strange 3. Am I less cynical unbroken...

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Wave Books

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Basie Allen
                                                                               when I hear those whispers moon                                                           out your crescent mouth...

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Ugly Duckling Presse

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Jim Moore
        All modesty is false modesty when it comes to poems,                     or to the silence in which poems begin

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Graywolf

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Matthew Dickman
And my father was right, his son was dead and gone and that was the beginning and the end of any story I might ever tell about love.

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W. W. Norton & Company

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Ian U Lockaby
they embroidered a fine lace—                 red: to give impression        that the blood of dapper enemies    lines their bellies and lungs 

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Tilted House Review

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Susana Thénon (translated from the Spanish by Rebekah Smith)
almost holy so almost holy is this thing that it forcibly draws the attention the almost absolute blindness of people

book

Ugly Duckling Presse

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Leah Naomi Green
that color is not color. The red flower, she tells me, absorbs all light...

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Virginia Quarterly Review

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