By Kristal Peace (This poem contains domestic abuse.) My mother holdsMy hand as we navigateThe city’s streets during rush hour,The song of sirens escorting us home.She holds the grocery bagThat yanks her toward dinner. She holdsThe sharp words my fatherFlings at her when she thinksThe day is going well. She…
by Adrienne Provost I have thirty-seven different bottles of nail polish. I keep them in a white plastic tray under my bed. Ten of them are varieties of pink, seven are red, and the remaining twenty are every color of the world I don’t live in. Now, I pull them…
