Esther Duflo: Tax the rich — and save the planet
Nobel Prize-winning economist Esther Duflo calculates the staggering cost of wealthy nations pumping greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, proving that getting billionaires to pay their fair share in taxes is the best way to cover these damages.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: The Garden
Because everything I learned from the stained
glass windows I was told to kneel under
still remains thorned & stained & torn,
& all the teachings I was told to believe, still
leave me dis-believing & I wish it were not so —
Robert Stewart: The Hole
The first time I took a turn on a jackhammer, on a sewer-repair crew, the foreman told me to strap steel toe guards onto my boots. My boots already had toes … Continue reading
Shadi Karamroudi: All the Time
Hearing that her teenage sister is planning to commit suicide, Toranj is in limbo, not knowing how to react.
Richard Krawiec: Facing it at the Halal Market
All the mothers and children, who were having such a hard time, the children, it wasn’t fair, who needed SNAP and how the store wanted to serve them too, but they hadn’t received approval yet.
Beverly Gologorsky: Aging in a Trumpian World
We must loudly proclaim our right to feel safe, to be free from hunger and assured of our healthcare and shelter.
Byron Hoot: On That Day
In a few days, it will be the anniversary
of my father’s death and I will have
to see if grief visits or stays away.
Fred Everett Maus: Growing Up
Until I left for college, I lived in the same home with my mom and dad. The house was built in 1924. My grandfather was the first owner.
Edna St. Vincent Millay: Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find
Laugh at the unshed leaf, say what you will,
Call me in all things what I was before,
A flutterer in the wind, a woman still;
I tell you I am what I was and more.
David Kirby: Leg Day at the Gym
Life isn’t always hard, but it’s almost never easy.
Daniella Toosie-Watson: A Series of Small Miracles
Listen: in this poem, there are no men.
I give to myself & give again.
Barbara Crooker: Coffee
Because each day
is a fresh new start, revised as the sky
after rain. Because my mug is full
of dark goodness, and the day is a clean
blank sheet.
Sydney Lea: Poor, Sad Soul
I’d seen that balding woman before, the one I watched as she transferred a few small sacks of groceries from her shopping cart to her Kia Soul, a car I considered too young for her.
