We sit in the kitchen my grandmother, my mother, me listening to the susurration of water boiling on the stove. Once the bottle is sterile, a careful spoon of powdered formula— my nephew needs to be fed every hour filling…
Browsing: Poetry
Then they said, “Come, let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves; otherwise we will be scattered over the face of the whole earth.” Genesis…
Kristin Prevallet – From dire to duty and all the muck in between, change is the only constant. This seems important to remember, lest what is fatal (fated, un-chanced) appear doomed to fail. Nothing is set in stone (made…
Cheryl Boyce-Taylor In Her Lingerie Drawer Five Years Later In her lingerie drawer two pearl and crystal hat pins a black flip phone that says Samsung Verizon my brother’s blue stained drawings from when he was five a braid wrapped…
Rosa Alcalá Homophonic Translation We like things written on us, juicy not the least of which what is your team the ironies I thought my favorite sweatshirt (damaged in print shop) said a coat of sugar, my budding coquettish-ness,…
Betsy Andrews On Neptune Memorial Reef Don’t laugh at me, I told that guy, advance of the morning neoprene stuffing, the South Beach merchandise vertigo—explosives and spear guns, holsters and knives— eddying against the incoming tide. I mean: time,…
Billie Chernicoff Kimono 1. Refusal, acquiescence, travel. 10,000 hours to master the brush. 10,000 to master silence. A study of a sparrow, study of a moth. The sleeve, the arm. An hour to dress. 2. Ode to the nape…
Caroline Crumpacker End Road Concussive Event Car radio love song driving out past intention and singing the static between stations . I love you too, that one-trick pony of trying to have a girlhood an ambient refrain of…
Betsy Fagin miraculous fishes surviving body feast days bosom ceiling already-formed tenderness the marvelously luminous genderfish fills their nets with the bell cure of souls not cranes of vigilance or safe-keeping, only ravens of heresy want knowns combust and survive…
Wendy Barnes Lament of the Swamp Hag I am not your paramour but made of your leavings, moss-haired, cypress-limbed and guts of chum and dogwood-chunked loam. This season turns you toward your fear, churning storms and waterspouts, the livid…