Category: Poetry

By Amanda Auchter Tomorrow I will dieif I eat this pear. If I eat this perfect almond, thisapricot. A whole bowl of fear at my fingertips—lips numbed, breath out of breath. Once,I boarded an airplane and began my ascentof panic. I begged my husband to ask the flightattendant to ask the pilot to turn the…

By Cami DuMay             You write what you need to. Once, when I was a kid, I saw a carcass in the woods,back behind my house. A deer collapsed in the humus,her skull still partly clothed in tawny fur, eyeless sockets,holes so black I felt myself pitching into their gravity. Here, a leg, and there, white…

by Nnadi Samuel Ma is unrehearsed mayhem:vendor of uppercut & jawbreaking kicks.attacks with both twins strapped to her back.infamous for pulling off wigs at the market place. she that volatile. though gentle, if a brawl profitsor leaves her littlun in safer hands. Ma tells me ‘stay’,tells me, I wasn’t raised to demand from the government…

by Mack Rogers when you were a kid you played too many video games & the pixels got stuck in your eyes. your mother told you stop staring at them screens so much, boy. & you tried to stop but it got worse when you played less & played more. they came from the television…

by Dmitry Blizniuk The darkness thickens diagonallyas if someone plays Paganini’s caprice on the violinwithout strings, without lacquered cartilages,without hands or a bow,on the pure vibrating clot of shadows.I want to come to the open windowand take a big lump of the blue sky,dazzling bright, cooling down, with my bare hands.Anti-evening.An anti-moth flies into the light…

by Shana Hill When you turn forty-six, I halve it with a blunt scissorI dread history, thick like the rings of a treeWhen you were sixteen, I was lonely for you sisterWhen you turn forty-six, I have you with a blunt scissorIt smells like children running, the lock on the floorI stare into its mustard…

by Tuhin Bhowal Already my belly looks like something to tolerate. The navel; a wormhole                                  —head of figs when plucked raw. Golden beard lacing only the left side of My face. Burgundy, huh, says the barber before touching, one more time after the trim,his scissor-hands paying attention, like an average                                           mind to an anomaly. Ballslarge…

by Matthew Tuckner It’s true, I will most likely die in starchy sheets completely foreign to me, but what am I to do,for now, with this onion-light reaching through the crosshatch of conifer & hornbeam I only notice because I wish to be ordained with the truth, absolutely smothered in it, like the student who came to me crying…

by Jemma Leigh Roe the way moves through streetsheat-stained i breathethe stagnant fumes—                                                                                                    man’s greed, a mane of smoke—unfed by the cravingof mammonmy own hunger withers                                                                                                    on a fruitless vinewhile truth bloomsin the jacaranda my mothergrew. be my mother.                                                                                                    my mother has died. i have onlyher beads, not her strong handsor long black hairthe scent of                                                                                                    hyssop and jasmine.the…

by Abigail Chang I was stagnant for so longthat everything quit blooming, andI could no longer get a sunburn or a credit card.Through the eye-hole, I spied onall these dark theaterswith slimy popcorn and plasticked wallpaper, not       caringthat every film was almost over,         that the creditswere already spinning by.And all the nights I missed,the outings…