Meditation on Grief by Saúl Hernández

My therapist says, Grief is like filling a ballon with water

until it gets so heavy it bursts. I think of Apá,

how when he arrived to the states, he drank so much beer

you could smell his brother’s suffocation off of him; how he still sits outside

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Abby Michelini
Poetry by Joanna B. Johnson

She is picking the skin off her fingers while she works, touching,

again, the cold stone. She kneels and stands, kneels, pauses

beneath the trees. She hovers between cracks in the sidewalk.

Wonder opened in me the moment I saw her. How is it we can part

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Abby Michelini