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 Alia Weylock The hundreds of miles from Guatemala to Texas play out like a movie in my head. I see my ten-month-old daughter tucked into her papoose against my chest, and my wife Chetta clinging to my arm as we trudged the path to the United States wearily. Chetta is swollen…
