strange isn’t it how every day brings us to a place we’ve never been, strange isn’t it, my nearly perfect one, how passionate we once were, almost, I would say, like bread and cheese which cannot bear to part and thus go down the dark throat together. And now it seems we have nothing other… Continue reading William Kistler
All I have never been troubles the night. — Phyllis Hoge Thompson, from “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).
the forecast kisses my cheeks with upheaval, says here it comes and I feel a little tingly, sky darkening to slate, then brightening to white the thrill of undoing and hurdle pouring over our windows cans of soup and wax beans just roll off the shelf and then it starts—the slow … Continue reading Dawn Lonsinger
Good morning, tree These things I want– What’s passed Past What’s undone Done — Jasmine Dreame Wagner, from “Assault with Butterflies,” The Literary Review: An International Journal of Contemporary Writing (vol. 62, no. 1, Spring 2019)
Maybe this is what it means to be alive on earth, alive on earth and nothing more. — Eliza Browning, from “Primer for the Smaller Things,” L’Éphémère Review (no. 13, Summer 2019)
Night and nightshade, yes, but also the night-blooming cereus, itself a cloak of nameless fragrance, its face an hours-long brightness in the desert, crumpling under morning’s fist—yes, the night-bloomers and also the nightingale, night- song, night-dew, the nightside of the heart as if it were a moon, the privacy, how… Continue reading Claire Wahmanholm
If you dissect the poem, this is what you will find: a handful of broken glass, salt bedding routes into our cheeks. If you crack an egg, something spills. The rabbit is limp & yet, the moon continues to glow. The rabbit is limp & yet, here I am, mouth stupid and dry. Palm of… Continue reading Yasmin Belkhyr