like the trembling voice of light at dusk.
No, I was not born here.
a whistle, a shout. Run. Don’t Stop. Don’t slip.
of flames larger than night.
is a language we can barely understand.
of dark leaves where birds go.
dissolving in the hot still air.
“We All Return to the Place Where We Were Born” by Oscar Gonzales: like the trembling voice of light at dusk.
“This is Not the Place Where I Was Born” by Miguel Pinero: No, I was not born here.
“X” by Imtiaz Dharker: a whistle, a shout. Run. Don’t stop. Don’t slip.
“The First Layer of City” by Marianne Boruch: of flames larger than night.
“My Daughter Among the Names” by Farid Matuk: of dark leaves where birds go.
“The Rhinoceros” by Robert Minhinnick: No.
“Ghetto” by Lola Ridge: faded like old hair.
“Tide” by Maura Dooley: dissolving in the hot, still air.
Erin Murphy is the author of six books of poems, most recently Ancilla, and co-editor of several anthologies, including Making Poems: Forty Poems with Commentary by the Poets (SUNY Press). Her poems have been published in The Georgia Review, Field, Southern Humanities Review, Women’s Studies Quarterly, and elsewhere, and featured on The Writer’s Almanac. She Professor of English at Penn State Altoona.