America

by Katherine Riegel
I never dreamt of you but of your parts: / my flatland home, the mountains my mother loved, / beach where I could look out and see only not-you.

Turbulence

by Maggie Smith
The sky shakes us / like a shoe with a stone inside. / Even the smallest stone hurts.

If I Have a Daughter

by April Ford
If I could have a daughter, / it would be my life goal to make sure she never—not in a million years ever— / confused one kind of touch for another.

Improv

by Roy White
Let’s make a wedding photo, you and I. / I’m blind and you weren’t there, but between us / we can do this.

Worried Playground Daddy’s Blues

by Justin Hamm
On the playground I strum guitar while my daughter dangles upside down from the bar above the tall slide, and inside my middle-aged brain a movie plays.

Going Once

by Allan Peterson
I believe it was either forever or an eight / no longer lazy on the page, / because things took longer after that, / had longer lifetimes, / and that was their sign in continuous curls.

Summit

by Natalie Homer
I wish the wild mint would bake its scent into my skin, / and I could drag it behind me, as if it were a train of silvery lace. / It never does, and that’s okay.

A Survey of the Sacred

by Isabella David McCaffrey
She says, “To write poetry about sacred spaces, I must understand what I mean by sacred spaces, il faut comprendre premièrement ce que je veux dire par Terre Sacrée.”