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 Lucinda Watson A crime has been discovered on this Saturday morning. My mother’s perfectly blue like a Maine sky stationery from Tiffany’s has been used to line the rat’s cage. It’s pretty clear who did this but we are lined up anyway. In the front hall underneath the curving…
