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 Allen Kopp When Vicki-Vicki was fourteen, she shaved off her eyebrows. They were growing too much, almost meeting in the middle, and she hated the tedious and painful process of pulling them out one by one with the tweezers. She believed that by shaving them off completely they would…
