Night, Death, Mississippi by Robert Hayden I. A quavering cry. Screech-owl? Or one of them? The old man in his reek and gauntness laughs — One of them, I bet — and turns out the kitchen lamp, limping to the porch to listen in the windowless night. Be there with Boy and the rest if I was well again. Time was. Time was. White robes like moonlight In the sweetgum dark. Unbucked that one then and him squealing bloody Jesus as we cut it off. Time was. A cry? A cry all right. He h

Tonight We Die as a Family by Mohammed El-Kurd At the hospital the nurse is startled a surprise visitor: her husband’s corpse on a stretcher he arrived in the backseat of a taxi-- a makeshift hearse. There are not enough ambulances in Gaza and more than enough death. She is livid. Men never listen I told you wait till after my shift I need to tend to the wounded first I told you tonight we die as a family we were supposed to die as a family View of destruction in Rafah, sout

You Want a Social life, with Friends by Kenneth Koch You want a social life, with friends, A passionate love life and as well To work hard every day. What’s true Is of these three you may have two And two can pay you dividends But never may have three. There isn’t time enough, my friends—
 Though dawn begins, yet midnight ends—
 To find the time to have love, work, and friends.
 Michelangelo had feeling 
For Vittoria and the Ceiling
 But did he go to parties at day’s end? Ho

I Must Become a Menace to My Enemies by June Jordan Dedicated to the Poet Agostinho Neto, President of The People’s Republic of Angola: 1976 1 I will no longer lightly walk behind a one of you who fear me:                                     Be afraid. I plan to give you reasons for your jumpy fits and facial tics I will not walk politely on the pavements anymore and this is dedicated in particular to those who hear my footsteps or the insubstantial rattling of my g

The Occupation by Robert Bringhurst for Janet Danielson I will tell you how it was the world changed, she said --and darkness wrapped us round. I heard her clearly, though I barely heard the words. It was nearly--yes-- as if she were singing. Our job, she was saying, is not to change the world--nor even to keep it from changing. No, she was saying (the story was over already): our only job is being changed. This poem, by a Canadian poet (actually, an ex-pat American), s

For the Thief by Alison Hawthorne Deming Thank you for leaving the desk and the chair, the books, snapshots and piano. I've heard of moving van robberies-- coming home from work to percussion of empty rooms. Thank you for leaving the trapped air that softens the blunt edge of my day. What's mine--the hum of identity-- still surrounds me, though the electronics are gone and the jewelry that was too precious to wear. Thank you for not spraying the walls with coke or with piss.

Acceptance Speech by Lynn Powell The radio's replaying last night's winners and the gratitude of the glamorous, everyone thanking everybody for making everything so possible, until I want to shush the faucet, dry my hands, join in right here at the cluttered podium of the sink, and thank my mother for teaching me the true meaning of okra, my children for putting back the growl in hunger, my husband, primo uomo of dinner, for not begrudging me this starring role— without all

Free by Virgil Suarez When we first arrived in the United States from Franco's Spain, everything we encountered or bought had "free" written on it. The boxes of cereal spoke of a free mystery surprise, the junk mail came bundled, and somehow that word sang to us. My father and I got wise—the word became cheap, untrustworthy, hollow. Having been fooled before, we knew what "free" really meant. We learned lessons the hard way; nothing free ever came so easily, but my mother—