By Jason Schneiderman
I’m writing a play about a Kommandant at Auschwitz / who recognizes one of the Jewish prisoners/ as a famous poet
After the death of the dictator, his son wanted him embalmed. His son wanted him on perpetual display in a glass box.
By Didi Jackson
What damage do I do? / The night avoids my eyes, so does the road. / I am never wholly myself, unto myself.
By Sally Wen Mao
Spring turns to summer, hopes fly high. A golden romance—in my bloody fists I smell osmanthus flowers. Under the pulped sun, lovers grow young and younger.
Some days, I sail on an empty boat to a country I don’t know. / With my navy-blue passport, I can go anywhere.
By Michael Martella
Through the window, what light gives / new meaning in the day.
Able only to recall / his parting footsteps—the chipping away at / a tree one fells at last
Inasmuch as our faces / bear resemblance, / now, to what // I imagine of them
By Christopher Soto
This life’s so small & // Sweet as a strawberry
We watched the women play harp in // The hills of grass
By Erika Meitner, Photography by Anna Maria Barry-Jester
Miami’s Built Environment at the Crossroads