Stories
Poetry
“The doors are closed,” she said, and we would not be flying to Paris.
Poetry Contest Winners
Who needs driftwood when I can bury myself in your loamy soil.
Poem of the Week
Neither fame nor wealth could provide consolation for life’s brevity.
Poetry
My love swims you, your shoulders like hard sails under the green curls.
Narrative Outloud
My closet was a repository of foibles and fetishes, an archive of my life history.
Narrative Outloud
The writer was there ahead of the world. And that was a great moment . . .
Poetry
She wears her nakedness like it has been woven from air.
Story of the Week
Lebanon’s sky was full of stars. The sky here doesn’t have any stars.
Classics
Professor Flacks could tell you everything about James Joyce.
Poetry
If life is an open vein, what’s brave about a sleeve-heart, sweetheart?
Poetry
I want to sleep in a bed next to a man who won’t dream of me all night.
Poetry
What’s left is a thumbhouse, an inch of gristle inside skin walls.
Poetry
I never felt heart stop or skin burn, just the first split second of sound.
Poetry
I feel them slice me open and tug, then I smell my own innards burning.
Poetry
I try to believe that even when cords are cut or people die we connect.
Poetry
God was surrounding the chair, leaves flourishing from a sickly tree.
Poetry
The coverage of the state funeral, black horse bearing an empty saddle.
Poetry
You can stand on the edge and tremble with fear or risk your life.
Poetry
After you have read all you possibly can there may be a few lines left.
Poetry
A car curved left, leapt the curb, and came at us like the line of a bullet.
Poetry
Kansas is a cold dessert, I say. No, Kansas is a tongue depressor, he says.
Poetry
One day, we will all turn into choir girls—all soft and hollow inside.
Poetry
These natives have the smiles we haven’t seen since we were children.
Poetry
It wasn’t clear if there was an outside world to our outside world.
