Stories
Poetry
Picture the thing you want most. True love? A new car? Let it go.
Poem of the Week
The world beyond the windows slowly tips forward into spring.
Poem of the Week
The year we left the reservation a white boy gave me a trash bag.
Poem of the Week
The canary-yellow sweater she knit while pregnant with me thawed first.
Poem of the Week
Come winter, they go to the funeral early & count the living.
Poem of the Week
Yang Wan-li said, There’s enough to eat. Who needs a lot of money?
Poetry
Mysteries I’m still trying to solve,
even as I begin to understand.
Poetry
Pummel nests from limbs and drown the furred things in their dens.
Poem of the Week
Mom could have been an acre away, or doe-still behind the next stalk.
Poem of the Week
I peel back the hours and search for the light before it scatters.
Poetry
Having held down the past applying pressure to its sacrum . . .
Poem of the Week
So sault means “jump,” as in sauter in France, but not in New France!
Poem of the Week
You’ve trained me well in the art of intimate distance. It’s not been easy.
Poetry
three women came in their nakedness so i could choose from among them
Poem of the Week
In the photograph we look nearly the same. Heft and hewn.
Poem of the Week
My stepfather has gone out with a blanket to place over a doe’s body.
Poetry
I want to step out into sun to scintillate for waves to come and spray.
Poem of the Week
Stocking shelves, like serving, is a job that will not let go of your mind.
Poem of the Week
He tries to appear slight in his leather jacket and turbulent jeans.
Poem of the Week
That piece of flesh you’re with is a high school student, a minor.
Poetry
I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.
Poem of the Week
You mixed a drink of sugar, rum, brackish debris. The ice was finite.
Poem of the Week
You didn’t speak, your eyes lobbed incendiary shells over the harbor.
Poetry
They found her where such girls are found. A Manhattan street.
Poem of the Week
A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.
Poem of the Week
A summer without passion, our selves pulled together like the leaves.
Poem of the Week
The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence.
Poetry
We were assigned straight to the lion’s muzzle, the Sardasht front.
