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 Michael C. Keith If you were color blind, you’d be a better person. Robert Smith It seemed to me that we’d been standing on the blazing stretch of Route 1 south of Savannah half of my 12 years on the planet. “My legs are getting rubbery from being here…
