Category: Volume XVII

Too late to contemplate rebirth

By Paula Hayes Vasquez Strayer University, Tennessee Warm hands hug the dirt Sifting cries of babes in Warm, passionless night. I am too garish to under- Stand the pain of this unremarkable scene. My mind can only take its unequivocal Flight, soaring somewhere up beside The upturned red jugs That the mothers once used to …

Continue reading

The last of the great wetback poets

By Fernando A. Flores Texas In the morning they were there, red circles on the palms of both hands, blood dripping down to the elbows. He walked to the kitchen to show Mom. She gasped. Told him to take a shower, scrub it off. He should wrap something on his hands so he won’t be …

Continue reading