Laure-Anne Bosselaar FOR MY SON on his 30th birthday I sit against the scarred trunk of an oak. The sun barely winnows through its branches. Beyond a lit spot, small as a new-born’s fist, a twig quivers, then arcs…
Browsing: Poem of the Month
Tina Cane GOOD MOM For years I drove back and forth through traffic with a carload of children short distances like sprints during which I would curse from behind the wheel for the sheer amount of hours and my…
Katie Manning The Ghost in My Knees I never met my great grandmother, but she lives in my knees, the way they freeze even on the warmest days, just like hers used to do. She lives in my…
Katie Naoum Mud Season The edges of the day thaw too quickly, become sharp, jagged, like my children’s drawings or their cries. My children. They are so very young, so beautiful and difficult. There are moments when new phrases…
Cheryl Boyce-Taylor The Grand Days of Noho Star for Kathy Engel Dear Kathy I miss our poetry brunches at Noho Star our talks on MFA programs children spouses mothers finances manuscripts submission guidelines— I miss our San Pellegrino flat radish…
Caitlin Grace McDonnell BAD MOMS I always cry on airplanes. Thought it was the movies. But when I cried at Bad Moms, I wondered if it was the booze. Tiny bottle of Titos and Mr.& Mrs. T. Or maybe…
Laura Johanna Braverman FULL MOON AND GALLOWAYS The farmer shows me a hollowing-in by the iliac crest, skin taut from the weight of the calf. ‘Soon –’ she says, ‘Next week is Vollmond.’ She brings out a box: puncher…
Brenda Cárdenas WHAT A MOLCAJETE HOLDS Despite my drawers full of knives and spoons, cutting boards, spatulas, ceramic ramekins, when I blend spices, I must place them in her molcajete, press the three-generation pestle against cloves to shatter…
Aimee Suzara First Ultrasound of a Trickster What did you sound like, that first time? A flutter: the wings of a furious butterfly, thrum of a colibrí. Twice my heart’s speed, yours. A life-force undeniable. A wild new fish…
Sati Mookherjee MY DAUGHTER THE TREE My daughter was born the year she turned fourteen, the year I was born, her spine rose curving into the tissue of sky, she spurned true for lordotic, posture for pose. I…