We have entered each other’s atmosphere In isolation, the way a bee knows The deep shadows in the folds of a flower But doesn’t know what a bouquet is, — Rowan Ricardo Phillips, from “Little Songs,” Paris Review (no. 218, Fall 2016)
I will never forget you. Your nakedness haunts me in the dawn when I can not distinguish your flushed brown skin from the burning horizon, or my hands. The smell of chaos lingers in the clothes you left behind. I hold you there. — Joy Harjo, from “Songs from the House of Death, or How… Continue reading Joy Harjo
All I have never been troubles the night. — Phyllis Hoge Thompson, “Do Not Tell Me That in Another Life You Will Leave Notes for Me Everywhere So That Next Time We Can Find Each Other,” The Hudson Review. Spring 2007.
We have entered each other’s atmosphere In isolation, the way a bee knows The deep shadows in the folds of a flower But doesn’t know what a bouquet is, —Rowan Ricardo Phillips, from “Little Songs,” Paris Review, No. 218, Fall 2016
Alternate Endings There are times when they gather at the edge of your life, Shadows slipping over the far hills, daffodils blooming too early, the dark matter of the universe that threads its way through the few thousand blackbirds that have invaded the trees out back. Every ending sloughs off our dreams like snakeskin. This… Continue reading Richard Jackson
Where have you gone, taking your wrists and the writing across them? Where have you taken your dark gaze and your moods turning like stars in the black? — Rebecca Lindenberg, from “Unsonnet: Dark Matter,” National Endowment for the Arts, Writers’ Corner: 2011 Poetry.
Dusk again—sun and horizon yoked to one another. All day I have looked for you in the likeliest places: pages of photo albums frozen with disuse, mapped the porcelain curves of portraits — Tarfia Faizullah, from “Nocturne: Awards Ceremony,” The Southern Review, Volume 45, Issue 2