Stories
Poem of the Week
ursula says she’s seen everyone she loves in an apple, save herself.
Poetry
If every cowboy has a sad song, I’m afraid you are mine to perform.
Poem of the Week
I am uneasy with the thrusting of green shoots outside in the night.
Poem of the Week
I am the king of doing wheelies on the Stingray bicycle of my mind.
Poem of the Week
Omens from the Lord, or Nature, the clouds, some darker silhouette.
Poem of the Week
Limbo: Latin, limbus, meaning a hem between sclera and cornea.
Poem of the Week
I remember speaking to Allison who asked me if I wanted to be a girl.
Poem of the Week
Bear: You were a good ranger, walking carefully between the trees.
Poem of the Week
Here is where you touch the world and here are the words to feel its heat.
Poem of the Week
Enough with the stranger, their transcendent experience of art.
Poetry
What I really meant to say is that I am tired. Beauty can demand so much.
Poem of the Week
Everything about us, for better or worse,
we make ourselves.
Poem of the Week
She fell out of her own composition, fell and landed flat on her face.
Poem of the Week
Dogs electrocuted, set on fire. What buys the right to drown a dog?
Poem of the Week
You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.
Poem of the Week
You couldn’t believe what the rhododendrons do around here.
Poem of the Week
Severe knobs of head and tail: one a horn of venom, the other masked.
Poetry Contest Winners
Her mother is a locked door with another door behind it.
Poem of the Week
I am subject to you in the way the water is subject to the moon.
Poem of the Week
If only to hold on by opening lord give me this one eighth day
Poem of the Week
I wonder if those tiny computers in pigeons’ brains ever crash?
Poem of the Week
I once watched a man wax a hallway with an overweight rotary brush.
Poem of the Week
You live in this country, you put up bars, you train your dogs to snarl.
Poem of the Week
Her husband is away at the family cabin, and she is glad for the space.
Poem of the Week
We fed our dreams inevitable sins, the kind you lie about till you grow mean.
N30B Winners
The smell of you, muscadine and peat, the bleached salt of semen.
Poem of the Week
How do we get there, to where we can answer what the jingle is asking.
