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Nirwan Dewanto (translated from the Indonesian by John H. McGlynn)
All eyeballs dipped in the vinegar of the bourgeoisie will become pickled eyeballs. Tonight I embrace my homeland. Being blind would not matter as long as I could give my eyeballs to you.

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Katie Peterson
Incidents on the wane turn a darker green. The map disappears five years after they make it. Twelve years ago was awful— now it's gone. You'd have to talk to someone who lived through those fires to find out what burned. In no year does this map record our smoke.

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The fire map requires touching – on the best device, you can do everything with your fingertips, no keys necessary. I obligated myself to describe the experience of the map – but the poem surged underneath with resistance, digression, argument, frustration. I find this to be common with poems, which are like my favorite kind of children – give them a job to do, and they’d rather do anything else. But give them nothing to do, and they hate you. A poem ends up being equal parts what you must do and what you want to do, but in a way, with a proportion, inhabiting a mood you can’t predict.

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Su Cho
Every time I see something cool and point it out to someone it sneaks behind a building, shrinks itself, camera-shy So I will capture it here—

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Cole Swensen
he took my Maybelline eyeliner pencil—warm brown—and with that alone, made up my eyes, creating amazing nuances, subtleties, new depths and contours. Neither they nor I had ever before (nor ever have since) been so beautiful.

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Kyle Dargan
       Some who suffer---------------imagine I am strong             Each of my days---------------is no more than a dead         lock between my pains---------------and my "powers"

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Emma Aylor
If you've seen a prayer spoken, you know something     of what I mean. The purpose of the prayer list,         read by the priest aloud, prior to a silence, is to hold

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Ha Jaeyoun (translated from the Korean by Sue Hyon Bae)
I’m not trying to say I’ve existed so long I can’t remember the quiet   noon, the work of keeping the body open in cracks of time,

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Lesley Wheeler
Once, at a modernism conference, a guy chased me around the canapés while lecturing me on Marianne Moore's asexuality. I knew my mother didn't like sex, but I never asked was it generally or just sex with my father. Nothing gets between me and my shame.

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Jessica Fisher
that strange kind, their eyes like citrine, their few ounces nonetheless weight enough to hold a heart.

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