Luray Gross: Fox Follows
At noon, fox lolls in the sun
rises and trots, pausing now and then
to look my way.
Majid Naficy: George Habash Sandwich
We returned from a Trump protest
And wanted to walk in Golden Gate Park.
We stopped at a sandwich shop
Which smelled like Tehran.
Sandra McPherson: On the Abundance of Shell Hinges after a Storm
How have these ligaments
held, for their umbones, each life’s intention
of never letting go?
Video: Fence
Kosovar filmmaker Lendita Zeqiraj shows us a group of French women from different generations of the same family loudly confronting each other with their views on life, love, desire, race, men, and the patriarchy. The family gathering turns into chaos while the youngest one – the only boy – looks for an escape.
Michael Simms: Antbed
You may remember my father
died when I was eight
my mother closed up
the house and we went to stay
with my grandmother for a few months
S. B. Merrow: Reading Half-Earth
E.O.Wilson says we already know
what happens to elephants—to us—
when families are broken, when
matriarchs and memories are lost.
Video: Out of Chaos
When a judge handed me two life sentences, it felt like drinking a cup of fire.
Denise Levertov: At the Justice Department November 15, 1969
Brown gas-fog, white
beneath the street lamps.
Cut off on three sides, all space filled
with our bodies.
James Crews: God Particles
Call them God if you must
these messengers that bring hard evidence
of what I once was and where I have been…
Jose Padua: Notes on the Crepuscular Effects of the Music of Thelonious Monk on the Noise of White Supremacy
the little glimmers
of late autumn light
are more than
enough to take you
where you need
to go
Patricia Spears Jones: an American haze
Trumpeter lilies argue the loudest scents — you could wrap
a fiesta with that smell
Majid Naficy: Visiting the Moon
I was fifteen years old
When I found the moon in the Biabanak sand dunes.
Kathleen O’Toole: Mindful
Samsara’s in every in-breath, each shutter click of attention: first warning
signs of famine, children lining up
for the soldiers’ candy
Dawn Potter: Canto
The season was autumn. Threads of smoke
unwound from the chimneys. Every compass pointed
toward winter.
