From "The Return of Faraz Ali" - Aamina Ahmad

“He walked out into the garden, which was small but well tended. There were new trees, and the lawn was lush and green. Swept up in the celebration of his return, he’d forgotten how foul, how filthy he was from the travel, the camp. He felt it now. He took off his shoes. In the camp, he had spent a long time wondering what he would do when he got home. What is the first thing, the men liked to ask one another. Food, sex. And it was true, in prison you recognized the appetites you were denied; you longed for those things above all because after a time you got used to not having them, your longing declining, and in that decline you recognized you were not the man you were before. You feared you would never be that man again. What had he thought of? The same, yes, of course, but also this: the outline of the trees in the evening, the cool grass against his feet, an open door, and walking through it and back in again as he pleased.”

James Wright - "A Blessing"

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.   
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me   
And nuzzled my left hand.   
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

In Italy, On a Boat, In a Cave, On a Boat, In Italy - Molly Johnsen

God carved the virgin from this
stone, apparently. My heart was
made in the dark of my mother; her
body surrounded the start of my own
—the way the earth holds the
horizon. Birth is the beginning of an
echo. In this divinity of dark, God’s
daughter won’t take shape for me—
like the woman trapped in my own
body cage. I yearn to give birth to
her. Anchored here, we bend our
knees to stay steady. We point up at
rock—at where the sky should be—
while our boat rocks in the wake of
another.

Austen Leah Rose - "Seventh Meditation on the Existence of God"

It’s the thing that happened that was never solved.
It’s the thing that happened that was solved
years later on an apple farm outside of town. It was somebody’s birthday,
the bus broke down, and an animal swept across the sky.
Then it hid inside a vowel sung by a woman in a bar at midnight.
That’s when it led me to its secret chamber.

Now it sighs; it’s becoming self-conscious.
Now it’s humming because it hasn’t got the words.
Now it’s telling me its middle name, which it’s never told anyone.
When it says pain, it means all pain.
When it says longing, it means every type of longing.
It’s stored in a golden vessel in the shape of a cat with sapphire eyes.

It can only be thought of from the inside.
At dusk, it disappears in an explosion of screeching blue light;
that’s why we’re all so sad,
that’s why we stare into empty cups.
You can still find it in a motel room in Wyoming while the TV plays softly,
and you look in the mirror and notice how you’ve changed.