Poetry

Audrey Carroll

[T]ell them, dear child, of the female narrative not born
of temptation & sin but of the blood of your blood singing out.

Caroline Chavatel

I frame you like a museumed artifact, safe from thievery and me.

Dear broken bread.
Dear broken skull.
Dear Thanksgiving.

Chelsea Dingman

[S]omeone I can’t dream has left this body

Hillary Katz

In April snow lingers like a drought.

Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello

Generations are contained
in her wrist bones, in whether she can
constrain the nature of the bird.