Poetry
by Talia Bloch.
“The playground has been locked for months. / A swing coughs dryly in the shade.”
by Monica Wendel.
“After putting our child to sleep, I hear gunshots – / quiet, quieter than fire alarms, fireworks, thunder, / quieter than sirens, music in the park, or backfiring cars.”
by Elana Bell.
“Each time something went missing— /
the photo album of my first / year, postcard from a forgotten friend…”
by Alma Gaxiola.
“If every life’s a story / Then their’s will always be worth more / Mine was drowned out by the water / Running like fathers for the door…”
by Marie McGrath.
“Imagine me: fearsome, protected, /
my skull a clean and empty chamber…”
by Laura Apol.
“on her desk / there was a handwritten list of guns / there was the cash receipt for the gun…”
by Deborah Murphy.
“Late June fields greening / under a mottled sky. / An oriole slashes orange /
against a shingled Cape Cod.”
by Rachel Ullah.
“Bloodstains left / on the sidewalk / Body bags, / Yellow tape, / Why don’t you think about the consequences / You’re going to have to face?”
by Margaret Kogan.
“The smell is like nothing else. / Sickeningly sweet and kind of smoky, / like something burning and rotting at the same time, / it filled my father’s hospital room / and stuck to our clothes and nostrils / long after he died.”