by Jonathan Endurance

I said water, & imagined an archipelago,
a water-bruised islands sinking their feet
into water.

by Jonathan Endurance

I put a knife to the cord that leads to silence,
which means my tongue’s got a wildfire for a name.

by Justin Evans

As if the absence of a person could make the universe
more bearable, something more desirable

by Justin Evans

They are the last to inconvenience us
prattling on about the neighbor with his
noisy dogs.

by Clare Goulet

While waiting
for the ancient city to be bombed that weekend we went
to the market

by Shakiba Hashemi

My mother read me bedtime stories at night.
As the moon passed over the blanket of sky

by Lee Peterson

There was the time I came by train
to Montclair from the city, to your family’s
grand house, in the dark.

by Diana Pinckney

The bull from Guernica returns, this time red
with blood and the eyes of one who has seen
families murdered in their village markets.

by Adrian Potter

My dad served in the Army for more than twenty years.
He wrote the lyrics to his blues throughout two wars, long
enough for him to stop lip-syncing someone else’s songs.

by Tatiana Retivov

In my dreams I call
Or try to call you
On some ancient phone

by Renée M. Schell

what happens
when a young child says
“thirsty” or invents
a word for the dry tongue?

by Ingrid L. Taylor

Get up
even if you don’t feel like it
make your bed

by Christina Vega

Imagine it.
Stationed / missing / back to Texas / “found in a field at Ft. Hood”

by Pramila Venkateswaran

if tears could fill our wells
they would overflow create water vapor
& much-awaited rain