Stories
Poem of the Week
Grandfather advised me: learn a trade. I learned to sit at a desk.
Poem of the Week
Imagine first the mighty blast. And then the mushroom cloud.
Poem of the Week
We were both up there smoking weed and axle grease, blinded.
Poetry
Under Saint Peter’s Gate, I put good foot after bad, and derided, I chased.
Poetry
Finger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.
Poetry
You’ll learn to love the spoil, the apple’s softest flesh, the bruise.
Poetry
she thrust to where her gut bucked acid & gave out a taurine heave
Poetry Contest Winners
I see now that motherhood is not required to speak a mother tongue.
Poetry
cannibal chowder and a kiss by the splashing voices of a pool
Poem of the Week
I lean I stumble toward you hoping you’ve not turned away yet.
Poem of the Week
The windshield’s dirty, the squirter stuff’s all gone, so we drive on.
Poetry
Maybe it’s a Thursday, & I’m coming home to make you dinner.
Poetry
God, I need to know what happened to those who tried to cross.
Poem of the Week
Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.
Poetry
Then I graduate to a four-digit mortgage inside an ornate gate.
Poetry
Forgive me, please, for continuing to believe that roses are beautiful.
Poem of the Week
A real or imagined boundary, crossed. End of the line. Lined out.
Poetry
His mooseness was implacable, the light behind him from the trees.
Poem of the Week
An empty day without events. And that is why it grew immense as space.
Poem of the Week
All of this leaves me floating in seas of prehistory and indeterminacy.
Poem of the Week
money gotten by blood tends to stay in the blood, which has no race.
Poem of the Week
Every day I was forced to return to the one place I did not want to be.
Poem of the Week
One makes one’s peace with words in a poem and space in a dream.
Poetry
Everything is mine on loan: the leaves I’ve combed out of my hands.
N30B Winners
Something basks and gathers in the dark parts of an open ear.
Poem of the Week
All those butterflies I impaled when I was a boy—will I go to hell for that?
Poetry
Before giant pandas earn heir name, they cub pinkly and mewling.
Poetry
It wasn’t the bees I thought to tell but wasps the evening you died.
