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Derrick Austin
I can’t imagine myself reading bedtime stories to a toddler, and I’m older than my father was when he read those brightly colored books to me.

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Blood Orange Review

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Máirtín Ó Direáin (translated from the Irish into Ojibwe & English by Margaret Noodin)
I will find Solace A short while only Among relatives Without sorrow Without mind worry Without loneliness Without confusion In the west

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Ojibwe.net

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Sarah J. Sloat

An erasure from Sarah J. Sloat's book of visual poetry, Hotel Almighty.

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Sarabande Books

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Jane Wong
Hunger eats through the air like ozone. You ask: what does it mean to be rootless? Roots are good to use as toothpicks. You: how can you wake in the middle of a life? We shut and open our eyes like the sun shining on tossed pennies in a forgotten well.

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Orison Books

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Cherene Sherrard

Mouth organ at midnight.
One woman supine, another
quadrilles—all blush crinoline
and caramelized curls—in a swamp:
what slithers and steams, moss.

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Autumn House Press

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Kathryn Smith
Tell me again of the lepers who learn                   to shed their disastrous skin by eating the meat of vipers: something transmutable in the flesh. The ancients                                       spent lifetimes considering the resurrection of irretrievable parts:

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Milkweed Editions

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Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work...

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Penguin Random House LLC

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Charlie Clark
To be serious is to have something unwavering inside you. And, oh, how I waver. I’d write anything so long as it was beautiful. It’s beautiful to touch either of my wife’s hands. My wife’s hands are warm as flagstones set out beneath the sun. When I touch them the ringing in my ears becomes the tuning of viola strings. I think it was something like this that made Andre Breton write “Free Union.”

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Four Way Books

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Sotero Rivera Avilés (translated from the Spanish by Raquel Salas Rivera)
My artificial arm, carelessly tossed on some couch, can laugh like an aimless shoe, destroyed, thrown to nights and rain in what was once my yard.

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Action Books

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Stephanie Niu
There were two times I heard my father sing. Once from behind the camera, panning to my brother’s birthday cake, his happy birthday a key off, so bad it is valiant, my brother blushing before the table. The second was at a feast—a mountain village south of Kunming where, my father pointed out, people readied for winter like animals, mixing butter into their tea.

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Southeast Review

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