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 Lisa Harris Where to begin? When she was 17, ten plus seven, in the 7th month on the 7th day, she flew on a 747 above one of the 7 seas to one of the 7 continents. At first, she did not notice patterns in what she saw as…
