Three poems by Donia Elizabeth Allen

. . . I am
nott afrayde of swells

that lift mee
off my feet,

or of a strong
undertow

Smell of Wings

The therapist says,
Picture a bird in your mind
What kind of bird is it?

WE WOULD HEX THE PRESIDENT BUT

our bloom game too strong / altar stays red candle cinnamon-lit
sweet flicker cracking into prance

Nijla Mu’min: three poems

“Just let me just lay here and do nothing
cause boss bitches get lonely too”

Day Heisinger-Nixon: Two Poems

“Room, Room, Room, in the many Mansions of Eternal Glory for Thee and for Everyone” & “Publick Universal Friend Adopts a More Androgynous Appearance . . .”

Two Tributes

Remembering poets Lynda Hull and Michael S. Harper, with original portraits

Two Poems

Two white men carrying briefcases walk in on a congressional meeting held by African leaders dressed in Western attire. Clapping at the president who resembles Léopold Senghor. He uses words like “revolutionary” and “independence” and they garner an applause.

Three Poems

If I cross paths with myself on the sidewalk, I’m not sure I will recognize my own face.

Three poems

Our bodies, temples—shouldn’t that mean anyone can worship? Shouldn’t that mean it’s okay to dip my hips into a communion bowl?

Two poems by José B. González

The sewing machines have been pushed aside to a far-off world, but I can still hear their thumping

Two Poems

As my relatives melted, I stood
on one leg, raised my arms, eyes shut, & thought:
tree tree tree as death passed me—untouched.

At the Gates, Mikhail Makes Me a Feast of Rain and Dirt

Hazem Fahmy was a finalist for the 2019 Boston Review Annual Poetry Contest and this poem appeared in our arts anthology Allies.

Centuries From Now I’ll Be the Archaeologist Who Digs Up Ferdinand Marcos’s Bones

sometimes i want to give God all the glory, but then i remember that he’s a white man too

mom calls me often
to ask if i’ve been doing
my nightly devotionals

Two poems

On any map in any so-called season, I can recognize myself at least once.

blessed are thou amongst

I confess, I was never made
to shake obeisant . . .

A Sigh

A Name That Doesn’t Nick

Three poems

We knew so little
about the plague
we underwent . . .

Dust

Proofreader

The Kindreds

“We were talking about the difference between ‘kin’ and ‘kindred’.”