Poetry
Poem of the Week
they released themselves so knowingly into the soft wet air
Poetry Contest Winners
There’s no studying for this. I think souls must exist in wanted things.
Poetry Contest Winners
Each Kardashian is completely capable of being alone at night.
Poetry
This comb smells like tea gone cold, weighs less than a vein pumped full.
Poem of the Week
Charge the ground till it glitters. It was God’s pleading in that rink.
Poem of the Week
I want to bring the duality of us together, not spar with language.
Poetry
The irreversible ink stain breaking the face of whatever we skate on.
Poetry
He drew on time, and space, he drew on his powers, and their sleep.
Poem of the Week
I will have to remember the man’s hooded eyes as he watches.
Narrative High School Writing Contest
we stiletto back to floodlit stages and boy flesh / stripped sequins
Poem of the Week
Lean close and kiss each other: dig down as far as down goes.
N30B Winners
It was a very strange dinner. I didn’t dare ask my parents questions.
Poem of the Week
Left Behind climbed the Octopus Tree to find the source of fire.
Poetry
What a noise it must have made long ago. It’s not just me saying this.
Poem of the Week
Tonight’s moon has dropped its shawl. I’m in the yard again, waiting.
Poetry
The city is lit with all its lights. I’m up in the air. It is yes until I die.
Poetry
poor Larry. you never asked to be raised from your tomb.
Poem of the Week
I’m a slave to the question what kind of music would ever dare leave you.
Poem of the Week
These things once-living drift toward the stone more movingly.
Poetry
In the republic of pain, we bloom ice bags and crutches on limbs.
Poem of the Week
All afternoon it rains on the traffic outside my window. It’s nothing new.
Poetry
I’m told that even during war, she took the time to put on lipstick.
Poetry
First a mother puts her child to sleep, then the other way around.
Poetry
the woman wiped her hands on her apron saying “lord these children”
Poetry
That is a building. That is a tree. That is a yellow car. That is a curb.
Poem of the Week
Your voice on the phone, a gesundt in dein keppel you blessed my head.
Poetry
At fifty, a new love feels like a particular kind of hopelessness.
Poem of the Week
I know it’s a problem, that I prefer to think instead of live.
Poem of the Week
I slide my heart inside a folded sheet of paper and tape down the opening.
