Category: Poetry

by Anna Meister baby fights throughpainful growth newunderstanding worldexpanding like a capsule-turned-foam-horse-in-wateragain he settleson a sleepless weo so symbiotico wonder week shushed but not savedin the blue-black roomwe relocatei picture my eyes scooped outwith a melon ballerthe thought comforts me now halfway throughmy hours i teeterjust this side of dangerouscould never say aloudall of what the brain…

by Jane Morton There  was  the  time  I  drove  the  car  into  the  creek.And  then  the  time  I  was  the  creek  and  almostdrowned. There was a year that turned the creek tostone.  It  wound  its  way  through  woods  that  aren’tquite woods. Trees too pale and nervous to be trees,and   grass   that   reached   up   taller   than  …

by Anthony Aguero Night breezes seem to whisper, “I love you”There is a soft kiss that is easily mistaken for a whisper and the night dragging along like abody in the middle of some desert I no longer belong to. Dream a little dream of meI no longer belong to. I shut my eyes and sharp blades of…

by Satya Dash My grandmother often in bouts of angerturned stone pink in silence, quietlyremarking: it’s impossible to silencesilence. It took me years to understandmy awe for the way she could deal a nounits own verb. I think about the last yearsshe spent paralyzed, a body washed slowby warm cods of light, preparing for deaththe…

by Marie Baléo After nailing a dead rose to the wall, she puts down her hammerand wrings her hands, shipwrecked; speaks of her father,how he once shot a boy in the head. The child had seen whathe shouldn’t have, she says. He was bound to betray them, menof the maquis who spent nights scheming by…

by Caleb Nichols Of course the oranges you picked tasted like candy.I tasted them days later,days later thought of you,how we wrote the new moon,spoke it; how the fire refusedto be put out. A green flame—boron burning you said,a green flame, then blue,how does a blue flame taste?How the sky tastes at sunset—softpinks, orange creams—the…

by Laura Villareal             The only thing sensible about the heart is its                         shoes. When the heart is sent away from                        home                        it only takes a small brown suitcase filled with air— the reason is unclear, but like I said, the only thing sensible            about the heart is its little white sneakers. Every heart starts                        out like this—with pristine shoes…

by Aleš Šteger, translated by Brian Henry Rain teaches us:Don’t search, place yourself in the rain. It teaches us, rain, how to scatterThe clouds inside us.For whom does it rain from a clear sky? Rain tells us:Every correction is a detour.They are only approximations of large storms. It secretly confided in me:For others, I will…