Stories
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.
Poem of the Week
The moment in your drunk when you become rich! A connoisseur.
Poetry
This morning I watched two elephants dance the boogie-woogie.
Poem of the Week
He said, You have no brother. I didn’t know what he meant. I do now.
Poem of the Week
Each night I curl my body around a small piece of silence.
Poem of the Week
It swims for a while, but abandons itself, slips from its own grasp.
Poem of the Week
We talked. She was the same inside as I am, from the same kind.
Poetry
Love cannot override what cells do in the nighttime of our bodies.
Poetry
I hold on to the shape of a star the way my aunts hold on to Jesus’s gown.
Poem of the Week
Sing so dogs bark, oxen bolt. Sing so a girl walks out on her lover.
Poem of the Week
How smooth their bones, like alabaster shaved from moonlight.
Poem of the Week
The past, you hear it, the small hours, sucked down the undertow.
Poem of the Week
Old wives, I wish I could be one of you. Instead I am the born old maid.
Poetry
I have studied and become intimate with the speed of darkness.
Poem of the Week
Outside of Ikea’s window the nighttime wind tilts like a folk song.
Poetry
this country will stick it to infiltrators imprison traitors love neighbors
Poem of the Week
The local madman’s been here even longer, lying across the sidewalk.
It’s no sin, all who hurry past his babble: no word-salad unlocks God.
Poem of the Week
I hold out hands, empty and poor like a beggar by the temple door.
Poem of the Week
We see how tired you are as you lean on your rifle or your shovel.
Poetry
A charmed sequence of words. The jangle. The strum.
Poem of the Week
Between me and the sky is a screen door and a whole mess of wind.
Poetry
Flies at our dinner—Won’t eat much sings the tiny ghost of my mother.
Poem of the Week
Surely a million mothers and school teachers can’t be entirely wrong.
Poem of the Week
Forgive my father, the promise that he made, that I could turn all this to gold.
Poetry
Strange then, strange now, that language wants to be alone with me.
