Poetry
Poem of the Week
So sault means “jump,” as in sauter in France, but not in New France!
Poem of the Week
You’ve trained me well in the art of intimate distance. It’s not been easy.
Poetry
three women came in their nakedness so i could choose from among them
Poem of the Week
In the photograph we look nearly the same. Heft and hewn.
Poem of the Week
My stepfather has gone out with a blanket to place over a doe’s body.
Poetry
I want to step out into sun to scintillate for waves to come and spray.
Poem of the Week
Stocking shelves, like serving, is a job that will not let go of your mind.
Poem of the Week
He tries to appear slight in his leather jacket and turbulent jeans.
Poem of the Week
That piece of flesh you’re with is a high school student, a minor.
Poetry
I have placed my thoughts for you in a nest of copper shavings.
Poem of the Week
You mixed a drink of sugar, rum, brackish debris. The ice was finite.
Poem of the Week
You didn’t speak, your eyes lobbed incendiary shells over the harbor.
Poetry
They found her where such girls are found. A Manhattan street.
Poem of the Week
A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.
Poem of the Week
A summer without passion, our selves pulled together like the leaves.
Poem of the Week
The holiest of all holidays are those kept by ourselves in silence.
Poetry
We were assigned straight to the lion’s muzzle, the Sardasht front.
Poetry
We inked our flightless limbs with needles and drew longing to the skin.
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What is greater: the distance between these bodies, or their need?
Poetry
Here lies the girl difficult to discern. Here lies the girl misanthropic.
Poem of the Week
Snug in the spell of a cradle rocking, I remember the first time I floated.
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Rays burst from behind the mountain, sweep the broad beach.
Poem of the Week
The horse is beautiful and would rather be doing anything else.
Poem of the Week
He calmed the animal with song while loosening the slipknot.
Poem of the Week
Life has never been in remission or rehabilitation. Life doesn’t sing.
Poem of the Week
We work to house the water yet know we cannot keep anything.
Poetry
How do we bury
the dead stacking up against our picture window?
the dead stacking up against our picture window?
Poetry
I could feel the floor’s slight pitch. We were in for a long, long voyage.
Poem of the Week
That cold green streak morning had nothing in common with us.
