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Ewa Lipska (translated from the Polish by Aga Gabor da Silva)
You can always become a worse breed of pigeons. A traitor to the motherland.

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Michael Palmer
Will the fires yes the fires will consume us. We will scatter our own ashes, scatter them in a spiral between lake and sky, cadmium yellow sky.

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Each of us enters Johnson’s book through that singular, seemingly never settled and always unsettling noun, holding a small flat object labeled Inheritance. A thing made and possessed by another, and now — is it really yours? A thing given, but was it freely chosen?

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Taylor Johnson
Young buck tapping its velvet against the bathroom window in the morning. The land leaning in the pines . . .

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Sanna Wani
In a daisy field. In a garden. In a graveyard, in the sun, its valley. In the sound of nothing. Your mother and father, two trees in the distance. In the distance. In the sound of the whistle, someone banishing you again.

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Rosie Stockton
what if we kissed in the Amazon locker? crude oil massage, your hand lotion on my choke points your most fresh sacrifice boxed like Blue Apron

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Jaswinder Bolina
They wanted other people’s transit and squalor. They’d been prepping for years in unincorporated Atlanta when a job-call lit up their scopes.

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Liz Howard
The value in a dead woman is that she cannot be killed again or cross-examined. The value in being the dead woman at trial is the Crown doesn't represent you regardless.

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Sara Lupita Olivares
you can see only the shape of the red-billed pigeon                 in the bathroom window, opaqueness a distance the yard repeats.

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