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John Keene and Cynthia Gray
a solitary human draws charcoal forest words against the inability

book

The Song Cave

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Jordi Sarsanedas (translated from the Catalan by Stanley Moss)
It neighs through small farms and hills. September is the name of this horse. See its eye clear the sharp horizon, ripen the mountains. Its hair scatters sun-pollen over red clay.

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PN Review

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Lena Khalaf Tuffaha
The name of my father's village speaks of the misery of pilgrims unwelcome for their poverty, a thorn -strewn hillside to keep them at a distance from the house of god for fear of their disfigurement.

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West Branch

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Gemma Gorga (translated from the Catalan by Sharon Dolin)
To get up early and check chat everything is in place: that the windows have not aged too much overnight, that yesterday's bread remains soft enough for the new day's baby teeth, that the yellow smell of curry lingers in the kitchen . . .

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Saturnalia

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Diane Seuss
The turkey’s strung up by one pronged foot, the cord binding it just below the stiff trinity of toes, each with its cold bent claw. My eyes are in love with it as they are in love with all dead things that cannot escape being looked at.

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Graywolf Press

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Nehassaiu deGannes
We want to spin our towels about us, but stand in the damp— a tintinnabulation of ankle bracelets shifting, delicately rocking from one hemisphere to the other . . .

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Tupelo Press

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Seán Ó. Ríordáin (translated from the Irish by Greg Delanty)
One icy morning I went out. A handkerchief hung from a bush. I reached to put it in my pocket. Frozen, it slid from my grip.

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Bloodaxe Books

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Roger Reeves
         Who isn't dying to leave this house, To go masked only in the shadow of one's animal- Breathing, lonesome, unprotected, knowing Nothing lives as foreignness or death, That the black dog with the sword in his mouth Passing from house to house will not bring its itch . . .

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The Sewanee Review

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Luisa Muradyan
I hold him close and walk away from other mothers singing their own version of don't be afraid

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The Threepenny Review

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Vénus Khoury-Ghata (translated from the French by Marilyn Hacker)
it should have been beautiful and it was merely sad gardens departed this life more slowly than men

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Poetry London

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