Poetry

Bosc Poetry By Leslie Miller When sun­light falls on the pearit becomes the meal of a long dead woman with heavy sleeves and small dog. Smoke from her chimney billows across the roof, and the wind presses rags of it closeto the ground like the…

Three Poems by Jonathan Diaz Poetry By Jonathan Diaz Vision: October 15, 2022 Having seen the smoke piling above the parking lot and the flames coiled around the cars      the fire­fight­ers instruct­ing the crowd to move any vehi­cles not active­ly on fire I…

Sept/ember Poetry By Court Ludwick Morning of the twen­ti­eth, there is a uni­verse on my wall. Just kidding it is only a burning square of light. Just kidding it is not quite burning. In the square, there are shadows of swaying leaves. Just kidding I…

Poetry By Liam Strong your first time was beneath cherry blos­soms queen anne’s lace & purple thistle freshly mown xmas lights burnt & heavy with July your b‑day a harvest lil eye balls dis­tend­ed from their sockets your red wheel barrow flush with pancake & syrup trea­cles of dew risen from nowhere…

POETRY By Helena Steel We’re on the phone      both of us peel       ing apples cut       ting out the bruises and rot        ten bits. She’s making a pie        and me, a cake. A coincident …

POETRY By Yael Valen­cia Aldana Alien, you are the best person I have met/not the strongest but the best/The worst thing you ever did I made you do/Drunk off our asses atop a ten-story apart­ment roof in Brooklyn/ I command you to climb down the…

POETRY By Justin Smulski we split a tuna melt and some coffees at a truck stop just by the exit with four-dollar coin-op showers and a sign clar­i­fy­ing that one must pay before the shower and not after across the shining table with striped metal trim you held the top of my…

POETRY By Kim­ber­ly Ann Priest my mother writes in her journal under the heading: How did Grandpa pop the ques­tion? refer­ring to my father’s pro­pos­al, who, of course, is ‘grandpa’ to my chil­dren for whom this journal is written. & her answer seems to be…

POETRY By Andrew Payton Beyond the sanc­tu­ary and teach­ers’ barrio where your broth­ers are build­ing roads, I picked guayabas with our chil­dren who had never tasted that fruit. We knew the tree, its loca­tion in pines— burnt irri­ga­tion hose, chipped porce­lain— and we asked them to spare it…

POETRY By Andrew Payton If I spent every day­break on this balcony, the man walking three pugs would become ritual in the way I once knew the sched­ule of a fox who crossed the bay window on morn­ings snow covered tracks in the moun­tains. My wife and I…