Stories
Poem of the Week
Men like me and my brothers filmed what we planted for proof we existed.
Poem of the Week
It is right that tears fall for something small and forgotten.
And I would never scold the onion for causing tears.
Poetry
Little footage, this plot, where it thrived at first, then ghosted away.
Poetry Contest Winners
To deny love can’t undo the feeling of it.
Poetry
When the snake attacked the soldier, its fangs left a violent opening.
Poem of the Week
I try to imagine him wanting only a Toblerone bar for his birthday.
Classics
No one’s alone. Men kill for this, or for as much. And what of the dead?
Poem of the Week
Never mind the gossip of the world. Don’t have it, yet have it!
Poetry
We spread. Kneel. We’ll come out missing parts. This we know.
Poetry
Some people see the man but not the light, the field but not the varnish.
Classics
One said she heard the jazz-band sob when the little dawn was grey.
Poem of the Week
We’d hit something in the dark which—bang!—was there and gone.
Poetry
In the backyard I submerge myself in a bathtub of soil, soak with the hose.
Poem of the Week
I crouched just like my mother burying nail clippings to ward off curses.
Poem of the Week
I was dusty, my ponytail all askew and the tips of my fingers ran red.
Poem of the Week
This is the woman who had shrunk so small, nobody could find her.
Poem of the Week
He came into town with his big red pen and began revising us.
Poem of the Week
Ajax killed men
and then animals
thinking they were men.
Poem of the Week
I waited and waited, rethinking first sentences in my sleep.
Poetry
My books, I can hardly read them, they make so much sense.
Poem of the Week
Grasshoppers tumble from the reeds, snapping like electricity.
Poem of the Week
Bees kill wasps by gathering around and tightening in the middle.
Poem of the Week
The time a man kissed my hand when we met.
Though he’s been dead for decades now, I still feel the kiss.
Poetry
Fatwas condoned our arrest for the rouged contours of our lips.
Poetry
By the time the sun was barely over the trees, they’d started burning.
Poem of the Week
Euclid stands in front of his lover’s door, open to the last hours of light.
Poem of the Week
The moon it is red, and the stars are fled but all the sky is a-burning.
Poetry Contest Winners
I could go in for some pie
why the hell not, there’s so little time.
Poetry
You’re standing too close to a lit house which could be yours—is it yours?
