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 Luke Lane I tasted blood. In my mind I saw myself at the dinner table working on a plate of dimes. Cold. When I opened my eyes I remembered where I was, and questioned why I wasn’t dead. I was covered in blood, and not all of it was…
