Category: Poetry

by Samuel Piccone Data is a precious thing and will lastlonger than the systems themselves.The inventor of the World Wide Web wrote thisin a book with less than ten reviews on Goodreads.Remember the time I googled, “am I being seduced,”after the cute neighbor brushed a mosquito from my armand smiled, “sweet blood?” For weeks, the…

by Carolene Kurien like a pulled pork fork shreddingevery strand of me to feed an other—my earlobes, someone else’s chew toy,my fingers lollipop someone else’s mouth.I walk through the grocery store, pick outthe freshest deli sandwich for my sister, forgetto buy myself pretzels. My nephew pullson my hair, exacerbating the growing bald spoton my hairline.…

by Holly Karapetkova For weeksI walked without casting a shadowas though the sun knewto no longer count me among the living.My head grew fields of weeds. I stumbled down synapsesno longer familiar.It took hours to cross the living roomto the front door. The only open roads ledback to the site of the accident:if I moved…

by Jane Feinsod And if collision and consumption are the same thing, then I willslam my body into those of the pearl divers. Yellow and red,bruised and sinking further, further— To go down for the harvest, to find nothing but barotrauma and anemptied-out vessel, to turn yellow and red, sometimes purple, thefurther down they go.…

by Shelby Handlerfor J, K, C & S I wish all my friends lived on the same block.If it snowed, we’d meet on the corner.I wish everyone made it out for a wintry walk. Everyone’s got a key to everyone’s locks,lets themself in, makes the fireplace warmer,invites all our friends who live down the block.…

by Katarina Merlini It’s nearly pornographicto see the way she slapsthe melonsat 9:30 on a Saturday morning:hand winding back,palm connecting,fingers lingering,listening for a resonateka-THUNKor not dependingon the ripeness.The baby slung across her cheststares at me across her shoulder,shielded by a massof blonde waves.What is it thinking?What does it wantwith its small blue eyes,and small moist…

by Jerrod E. Bohn If poetry wasn’t yet invented & November excludedall candidates, I’d lie with you readingthe book between your legs while the cat flicks her tail to agitate dustthat once again settles in the scarbelow your left eyelid when you said you ran from tear gasbut somehow do not cringewhen my voice is…

by Perry Janes the Dollar General parking lot whereconcrete bergs sprout improbablered flowers, the sinkhole photo shoot,a bride’s train graying in coal ash, orthe corner cafe, mounds of cronut sugarshared between strangers in February sun—those ruins, again. That word, ruinsome dust storm clouding the scene.If it’s true, we learn by imitation,somewhere, a boy empties himselfon…

by Emma Aylor                   Amarillo, Texas I hear his legs just won’t stay naked. When the artistsandblasts the socks, a new pair appears: turquoise blue,once; white with red stripes at the tops; the American flag splitin two. The latter pair dressed the legs—severed by design—when I saw them on the winter rangeland, the stump of the…

by Noelle McManus For Francesca Woodman A conversation with my mother aboutpsychiatric hospitals. About cigarette burns.How much money are you making. Is itenough. Do you remember when you took drugson the sand and thought you were an alienand everything seemed better that way.That never happened I say you’re imagining things.All I did was stand on…