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Sean Shearer
There were woods behind my house                       scattered with berries I couldn’t digest. I’d curl on top of the dirt                 hugging the knot inside my belly and now                                                I’m in bed kissing a pale green vein as I listen to his voice like a knife with its scar—                                                                            six birds stretched across a fret board.

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Tiana Nobile
Of an animal, especially a bird. A wandering species whom no seas nor places limit. A seed who survives despite the depths of hard winter. The ripple of a herring steering her band from icy seas to warmer strands.

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Donald Revell
My mother's name was Doris, A Greek unknown to her. Hidden Among the wild herbs in their patterns Are first things, and first things never die. To them, the afterlife is a memory.

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Benjamín Naka-Hasebe Kingsley
                as every thing begins        with the heart        beat of horses a tribe        the thudded color        of all creation                 my people gather        brindle        as if the night were drizzled long        across their backs        she                 of sickle sword        of tendon & tusk

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Maria Stepanova (translated from the Russian by Sasha Dugdale)
they travelled a long time longlongtime dumbstruck stillstanding trees not-earth and earth pressed close builder's yards    morgues    fly-tips

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Diamond Forde
fat girl nicks herself shaving in the shower, resents the water that will carry her blood to sea. Blood, worthless currency, cannot buy a country but becomes it, platelets stitching into streets. fat girl weeps for the blood that won't return—

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Cynthia Arrieu-King
I didn’t want to do it over in silk flowers the main strands of staying here— flowers made of yarn held behind the back, a shore where splendor washed up a glittery stone, a sun setting in its stripes.

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 The premise of “When You Go Away,” is familiar: when the lover is separated from the beloved, the order of the world changes. Given the limits of this conventional subject, how did Merwin make a thing both faithful to its convention and new? I found an answer to my question in the complexity of the poem’s final lines: “my words are the garment of what I shall never be / Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.”

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Rosamond S. King
When someone’s son becomes a meat offering on our block, they hire one of us to scrub the blood away – can understand that but they’ve been scrubbing us away painting over bronzed cherubs

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Arthur Sze
Adjusting the rearview mirror in the car before backing                     out of the garage, I ask, What is the logarithm of a dream? How do you trace a sphere                     whose center is nowhere?

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