Stories
Poem of the Week
It stood across a narrow side alley where light-green ivy grew.
Poem of the Week
It was cool and dark, azalea in bloom at the edge of the forest.
Poetry
Pinned to the wall, it looks uncannily its own language, trick of the camera.
Poem of the Week
They dust off facts like diamonds that excel in perfection under a monocle.
Poetry
Below, the kiss silently maneuvers our bodies closer to the rose bed.
Poem of the Week
He tossed her over his head like a ballerina, one rough hand on each hip.
Poem of the Week
Francis too had his time in the wilderness, lost in the mountains.
Poetry
Judging beauty, which is keenest, Eye or heart or mind or penis?
N30B Winners
You can always tell the military folk by their even stance, their steady gaze.
Poetry
I told kids I didn’t feel a thing there anymore, but it was a lie.
Poetry Contest Winners
He said, every night you close the store, I watch you walk to your car.
Poetry Contest Winners
A body must learn again how to accept the proprietorial hands of a lover.
Poem of the Week
We had a pact to live outside the adult world forever, and we broke it.
Poem of the Week
Every voice an epitaph, and then a little tune from the neighbor’s yard.
Poem of the Week
so this god is only wood and holes, a blank, like the moon’s unlit side.
Poem of the Week
I wanted to ask what her secret was but I was too busy knitting socks.
Poetry
The dead and alive who we will never see again but in dream or memory.
Poem of the Week
Hands that have waved farewell, sooner or later I will see them again.
Poem of the Week
Will you bless us, who are so in need of blessing? The world tires.
Poem of the Week
The mirror will flow and the heart will set like glass in the frame of his bones.
Poetry
I can already feel the stone’s resistance as I work the first pass.
Poem of the Week
I’ve sinned. Cannot be saved. He was a child. Surely he went to heaven.
Poetry
With no words to speak about our love, we’re each one more alone.
Classics
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the page, are letters up to no good.
Poetry
It’s all that I have left of “the old country,” as my mother calls it.
Poem of the Week
When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.
Poetry
My mother’s city and I were both named after an assassinated king.
Poetry
Thus is the way of leaves the secret ones that no one sees, not even me
