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 Amy Covel It was Your work You gathered The stone The metal The tools You worked For days For months For years You created Those walls Those floors Those bars And now You live In Your own Prison.
