Stories
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?
Poem of the Week
The noiseless trees, the insentient breezes that are not there.
Poem of the Week
Every dawn you’d toss the feed, your hands faithful to the good work of rising.
Poetry Contest Winners
Stop her there, on the bank of knowingness, just before spring.
Poetry
She could not remember what Past and Present stood for.
Poetry
Years they sought her, whose crew left on the water a sad Welsh hymn.
