Stories

Poem of the Week

He phones from across the country after lying in the grass with another.

Poem of the Week

Bees may not be bought. Our children may never know apples.

Poetry

It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker, ciao, Antonio.

Poem of the Week

may your harvest fit in a sack may none of your apples be sweet

Poetry

After the child died they mourned oddly. She wanted another.

Poem of the Week

Wrists will twist or twirl while the hand writes the wriest writs—lamps-lit.

Poetry

Song where a house becomes a dandelion in a puff of savage wind.

Poem of the Week

Books are territory of the hands, hands that shook my spine.

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Poem of the Week

Too bad there is no oil between her legs that 4-year-old Muslim girl.

Poem of the Week

I’m the one with the most crumbs, little bits of salad or fudge.

Poem of the Week

Be glad the numbness in your legs isn’t reading on your face.

Poem of the Week

I saw Baryshnikov twice. Heard Pavarotti, Marsalis, and Ma.

Poem of the Week

Our father turned to me and said, Why does he sound like a girl.

Poetry

I fell asleep wondering to whom the tree might have been writing.

Poetry

They peer into their mirrors to see whatever is bearing down.

Poem of the Week

When I see buffaloes run I think of love—how it is held.

Poetry

We ate and then made love, the windows open to deafening twilight.

Poetry

No one tells you what it sounds like out in the streets when bullets clang.

Poem of the Week

The purpose of all rules of piety is to extend revelation into ordinary life.

Poem of the Week

For years, all we showed her for her pains were two deaf ears.

Poem of the Week

Tear-streaked mascara, mascara-stained cheeks: a cataract of woe.

Poem of the Week

Complicity can crease the tongue back on itself like an origami dog.

Poem of the Week

I’m the shrunken dead like them, here, greening the sky’s bluer potion.

Poetry

Now the mulch has come between us seven turns, I’ve grown dramatic.

Poetry

On the anniversary of your death, a memory sharpens, as if illuminated.

Poem of the Week

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry.

Poem of the Week

I am tamping down the earth with the flat side of a blade I am burying you

Poetry Contest Winners

I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.

Poem of the Week

Purple planets, dirt stars. Imagine the carom in the hall, how it sounded.

Poem of the Week

I have already begun the life-long work of hating my father.