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July 11, 2023 |
in Poetry |
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Peggy Robles-Alvarado is a tenured New York City educator and award winning poet who inspires triumph and embodies strength. She is a 2021 Jerome Hill Foundation Fellow in Literature, a two...
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June 27, 2023 |
in Poetry |
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HOME / MEMORY / HOME — for the women of Ukraine I called my home “Memory” because before I was born ancestral voices...
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June 12, 2023 |
in Poetry |
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Mullions cut the windows into equal pieces, there were cats prowling the halls of the asylum. Nights straight-line rain hit the glass, the wooden rafters shook. Oracles in white...
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April 8, 2023 |
in Fiction |
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To get to the Howard Oberholter Artist Colony, I took a train to Plunketteville, then a bus to Upper Yarn. I hiked the last mile up a dirt road, humping a knapsack that contained a change...
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April 6, 2023 |
in Fiction |
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I’m flat on my back when he takes out the gel. A gob falls on the floor. This won’t hurt, he says. Fisting my hands, I stare at the wall, the basin, a neatly framed poster...
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March 30, 2023 |
in Poetry |
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CRANING The wings are scoredfeather by featherof nearly weightless wood,and neatly folded one over the other.The student of art in Kinshasaput her name in capitals underneath.Mbantshi.I...
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January 11, 2023 |
in Poetry |
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All light of yesterday in this place is now hidden. It could be the ground heating my feet or it could have fled with the stream into some larger body. I wait for the moon,...
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January 11, 2023 |
in Poetry |
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Insects have transformed into a graveyard the windshield of my Indian Scout. My brother rumbles down the engine of his Chief, pulls off his gloves, loads the camera &...
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January 8, 2023 |
in Creative Nonfiction & Memoir |
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Romantic partners just aren’t bikes, are they? My eighteen year old hybrid still runs like a dream. I just pump up his tires at the beginning of the season, and once or twice during, take...
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February 2, 2022 |
in Poetry |
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you can never not see a bird in your house. Every rustling paper, every curtain twisting in a breeze, every shadow on a ceiling is a frantic, fluttering bird. One winter we had...
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September 30, 2021 |
in Poetry |
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“…Speak to me. Take my hand. I will tell you all. I will conceal nothing…Fist my mind in your hand. What are you now?…” -from Effort at Speech Between Two People by Muriel...
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October 25, 2020 |
in Creative Nonfiction & Memoir |
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From under the awning, I could hear a sound like small fragmenting pieces of stone crashing into the window. The rain was starting to pour down from above; listening to it for a moment, I...
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December 26, 2019 |
in Poetry |
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COUNTING EVERY PETAL The ground is finally bare, the snow vanished into it as if it had not smothered the world for months. It might wrap its shroud around us again. We...
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November 23, 2019 |
in Poetry |
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MILK Milk arrives like a blessing in my dreams— blue-white as a glacial waterfall from a far-off thaw. In my most joyous dream, a precious rare appearance, I am old—old as...
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November 16, 2019 |
in Poetry |
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When a beloved dies, we gather like elephants to mourn the bones touching each foot ankle, femur, rib, vertebrae, shoulder, stroking the pelvis, jaw, cranium, moving each one separately...
[new_royalslider id="17"]
Ana Flores is a sculptor and ecologist. Her work is informed by how pla
2 Poems
Let Me Straddle Your Mind
The Crusader
Yeah bring our electric shaver back, I bought it we shaved each others back
it was important to me
Kwame Dawes
1
Yes, we were country, lived in shotgun
shacks, where the road loses its way
to dirt and live 
[new_royalslider id="11"]
Courtesy of the artist and Mizuma Art Gallery
"Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to lea
Junot' Diaz
and Edison, NJ
The first time we try to deliver the Gold Crown the lights are on in the house but no on
Elegy & Poem
"We are all the other."
…and find inside a picture,
of myself as a child, sitting
on a small chair, wearing overalls
an
Raphael Perez
To Alex, on turning two
Some say the Ring of Brogar
is the Circle of the Moon.
There is n
March on Washington
An Interview with Cheryl Evans
In a strange twist of what seemed
like reverse vandalism, the Graffiti
Mecca was painted over. 
Forest Gander
A Translation
Quassan Castro, poem
Grandson to Grandmother
Wynwood Walls, of Miami has been called "a Museum of the Streets."
Low like the mean dream
of Newark the sky must
have seemed to its builders.
Rickety now, unhingin
At last, the extremes
of his present methods
seemed to offer
the happiest avenues.
The strengthe
5th Limb
Poems
Poem, Knot
Poem, Look This Way
Xue Du, Poem
A woman in a black kimono dyed black hair
disappeared behind a black curtai
Poem:
Behind the War On Women
Maria Mizzotti-Gillan
Short Story
Pilar Fraile Amador
poem
Lady Haiti
David Trinidad
Landzy Theodore
Angelo Nikolopoulos
