Stories
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
Below, the kiss silently maneuvers our bodies closer to the rose bed.
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
Poetry
We wanna play Nintendo till it’s dark out and can’t, the grid’s down.
Poetry
They fed her honey, cream, bits of lime, that meaty pulp ripped from rind.
Poem of the Week
We entertain them. We kiss and spit and strike. We’re always changing.
Poetry
If I also could be lifted into the sky,
I’d wish to be blown apart.
Poetry
Outside the tinted windows, the deep jungle falls away into valley.
Poetry
Sometimes a you is a lover, but he is not my lover. He is looking at me.
Poetry
The face of love is a poem I am writing in an air-conditioned room.
Poem of the Week
He whispers words that sound as miraculous as the skinned fish of the clouds
my father writhed like pentecostal snakes while he drove drunk
Poetry
The story is easy to read, scratched deep into the stone by his rage.
Poetry
This storm scares me. A foreign climate occupies the land.
Poem of the Week
A man sits in the Institute of National Memory examining files.
Poem of the Week
I ask if you are all right until you can be nothing but not all right, not okay.
Poetry
I can’t hold a face held before dawn & not see behind the eyes bullets.
Poetry
Of course he escaped. He would be the one. My legendary brother.
Poem of the Week
I have heard stories of the river, how people were willing to die to cross it.
Poem of the Week
For two days I’ve been weeping over a nineteenth-century novel.
Poem of the Week
No fountains to quench the thirst between rounds of tag.
Poetry
I forgot to detail that the jumper leapt from beside the hanging Monet.
Poem of the Week
I bring out the emergency in people and I don’t know why.
Poem of the Week
His weary glance has grown into a dazed and vacant stare.
Poem of the Week
At night everything feels. Even a river feels its way through the woods.
Poem of the Week
On her sixty-second birthday Marge Olson got a call, not a gift.
Poetry
Sometimes a story is like a beehive. Sometimes an idea is like a poem.
Poem of the Week
Are these poems just cumbersome or a critique of cumbersomeness?
