Oh Hazelwood,
Hazelwood beseech me to
come home for I've become
a lonely soul wondering
alone with a shaven head.
Not my idea, no, not my
own. The man pleaded for
you to never leave him on
his own.
He's disassociated but he's
never believed it with his
backpack dreams and
time in blackhole love.
Met you and he found a
different kind of love..oh
Hazelwood please come home.
Home was sometimes A&E,
seemed to me that you were
getting pretty tired of it.
I could see. We all could.
Too scared to admit it incase
you'd leave us like our sand-
paper carpet meetings where
I felt the friction of your grief.
And bless your brave soul to
be able to live with the many
people I've become. But I dare
you ask! Ask anyone. You're
the only one they'd say they
loved.

21–40 of 11462 Poems
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Faith
BY MICHAEL *******br>When I cannot believe,
The brown herds still move across green fields
Into the tufty hills, and I was born . . .
Teusaquillo, 1989
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
Flowering sietecueros trees:
How easily we married ourselves
to the idea of that bruised light . . .
Bright Pittsburgh Morning
BY MAURICE KILWEIN GUEVARA
This must happen just after I die: At sunrise
I bend over my grandparents' empty house in Hazelwood
and pull it out of the soft cindered earth by the Mon River. . . .
Hanukkah
BY HILDA MORLEY
This season for us, the Jews—
a season of candles,
                                      one more . . .
Winter Solstice
BY HILDA MORLEY
A cold night crosses
our path
                  The world appears . . .
And I in My Bed Again
BY HILDA MORLEY
Last night
                     tossed in
my bed . . .
alternate names for black boys
BY DANEZ SMITH
1.   smoke above the burning bush
2.   archnemesis of summer night
3.   first son of soil . . .
Listen
Attenuate the Loss and Find
BY ANNE WALDMAN
name appears
everywhere and in dream
body armor removed . . .
From “Citizen”
BY CLAUDIA RANKINE
/ 

You are in the dark, in the car, watching the black-tarred street being swallowed by speed; he tells you his dean is making him hire a person of color when there are so many great writers out there. . . .
Listen
History Will Decide
BY ANNE WALDMAN
All writing around the sides the persons a galaxy all writing resounds a hot history. All writing is in fact cut-ups history will decide games heated and heated economic behavior. To rise up scene all sounds of Tahrir and inside supply side threatened. A long delineation. Longer than I would . . .
ICC Kenya Trials: Witness
BY SHAILJA PATEL
was it so I could
never say
across a courtroom . . .
Mosaic
BY TIM SEIBLES
A carpet of light, the
ocean alive < half a moon
muting the stars. . . .
sideshow
BY DANEZ SMITH
Have I spent too much time worrying about the boys
killing each other to pray for the ones who do it
with their own hands? . . .
The Last Son of China
BY **** PING
.......................    hello hello hello    ...    Weiwei    ...    where have you been?    ...    I see you in dreams    ...    bleeding    ...    in the darkness of the . . .
The Skin of Sleep
BY MYRA SKLAREW
The skin of sleep
is thin. It will not hold.
Its contents stumble out. . . .
What Could Have Happened
BY SHAILJA PATEL
Wa
gal
la . . .
Everybody Has a Heartache: A Blues
BY JOY HARJO
In the United terminal in Chicago at five on a Friday afternoon
The sky is breaking with rain and wind and all the flights
Are delayed forever. We will never get to where we are going . . .
Good Friday
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
Jesus, I want my sins back.
My prattle, pride, and private prices — 
climbing, clinching, clocking —  . . .
ICE Agents Storm My Porch
BY MARIA MELENDEZ KELSON
The Indiscriminate Citizenry of Earth
are out to arrest my sense of being a misfit.
“Open up!” they bellow,
hands quiet before my door
that’s only wind and juniper needles, anyway.

You can’t do it, I squeak from inside.
You can’t make me feel at home here
in this time of siege for me . . .
Tablets
BY DUNYA MIKHAIL
1


She pressed her ear against the shell: . . .
«1234»

TW: Suicide
*if you or someone you know is considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Hotline:
800-273-8255



My father walked in
Thinking his son was still in love with his life
But the letter
the letter
the letter
The pills
the pills
the pills
Scattered
Like the candy left from the Christmas parade
Da, how do I tell you
It was never because I didn’t love you
I do,
I do,
I do.
How do I tell you
Home is an echo, a smoke filled hazelwood  
Where I cannot put out the flames.
How do I tell you
The day we went Christmas shopping in the city
I cried in front of the window display
Because the cotton snow looked so cold
And it reminded me
Of when I was 6, and you set me on your shoulders
And we went out into the copse
To cut juniper boughs for the table
And came in smelling of wet snow and sweat and the soft, sweet pepper of juniper berries, hands sticky with sap
And Mum smiled,
And I cried because I knew
That was the last time I could remember I was happy
And even it was fading fast,
Flames curled around the charred edges of Mum’s lips,
Her teeth smoldered
And then she was gone into the swelling black smoke,
Curling burnt ribbons are all I have left.

How do I tell you
My fingers have razed the grey matter, amygdala,
thalamus,
cerebellum
Until they hung in charred threads
I dug a labyrinth of fire breaks in my brain
And still the Minotaurian roar of flames
Is eternal.
At night I cannot sleep, they are
So loud
So loud
So loud.
If you ever wondered
Why I am still awake at 3am
Watching late night TV in all its ****-filled glory
It is the closest I can come to numb,
And the fake family’s chatter
Is so easy
They say nothing, talk of nothing
And that is what I need
More than anything
To be nothing.

How do I tell you
It is not your fault
It is just that I am so tired,
So tired
So tired.
And the flames have burned my hands to stubs
my lungs are charred branches
That cannot expand without an exhale of ash
And I am so tired.
I have tried to climb out from under the weight
And I am dragged back in
Every time.

Da, how do I tell you
it is alright,
I have put it out
I  have put it out
It is out.
Forgive
Me.

hazelwood briars brown the forlorn
fallen limbs on the ground the next step watched
for slithery snakes amongst the dappled
sun contrasts and deep shadows
make great
camouflage make great hiding places
makes the mind seek
the mowed lawn manicured
barefoot I spend time like
my ancestors
naked roaming
the deepest wildest places
in nothing but shivers
and teasing the insides my recesses
into seeking out the forbidden
shallow ponds soft silty bottom
the rivers banks
a tall oak on the side of the hills
majesty
the elm on the lee side of that hill hidden from
eyes and so peculiarly begging,
calling me
seducing
swaying in the sunlit portions of all of
the fronds edges the mosses
the mushrooms sprouting
a soft bird shrill
a move is a whistle
the loneliness a thrill
the caution in the breeze
a passing will

Your voices whisper on the wind,
a haunting sigh; your spirit’s breath.
Entrapped the day your light was dimmed;
within the spot your bodies bled.

Amidst the ruins of yesterday,
your apparitions call to mind,
and heavily they weigh upon,
the childhood heart I left behind.