But their marriages
Must not be menial.
They must be art—
Ballads of rich, wrenching chords.
Letters to the Editor Regarding the Death of Public Discourse by Sara Biggs Chaney
You say there are ashes in the water. I say if you want my new sprinkler system, why don’t you come and take it from my cold, dead hands.
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Two Poems by Heather Lang
here’s a lastingness / of to crease and an ambiguity / of to fold.
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Two Poems by Rachel Inez Marshall
I read someone stole a frieze from Santa Croce
over the weekend. And given my sense of Florence
or elsewhere is less than impressive, I thought maybe
you and the thief may have passed on the street.
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Two Poems by Katrin Tschirgi
I'm tired of being cute. On Tuesday,
I wore nothing but an apron and dismembered
an orange as though it were an oyster
or a man.
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Three Poems by Felicia Zamora
Fingers to keyboard, cyber-minded
when the photo hits your inbox—
Hexagons burnt into wood: a pattern
innately inside the bee, graffiti-ed
by human hands.
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Four Poems by Nathalie Handal
I asked you not to hurt me
the way history did
Three Poems by Annie Woodford
Prisms spin in the hardwood floor.
My daughter glides and chops, skate-shod,
Her little girl legs a perfection of knees and narrow thighs.
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Three Poems by Dahlia Seroussi
Four Poems by Priscilla Wathington
”I was a ghost in a strawberry field for five years,” he says.
“The ghosts were plentiful, ‘la fruta
del diablo,’ as they called it, also--
faakiha ash-Shaytan.”
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Three Poems By Laura Wetherington
Soft solid visage, followed by reflection.
If only each cavity knew oblivion.
The eye, preceded mostly by footwork,
waves into pain. The right to feel the lights.
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Two Poems by by Melissa Stein
Everything served up / on a silver charger. / Even the air conditioning, / even the sink fixtures / hold the peculiar/ inevitability of flawless / design.
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Two Poems by D.M. Aderibigbe
Three Poems By Esther Lee
Give me back to my body—not the same
narratives you write everyday nor wheels on
ends of piano legs, but rather, a momentary
transcendence, or at least system overridden,
before you take a bullet in the back—
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Two Poems By Jennifer S. Cheng
If temperature were a way to know the world, then
waning heat, half-heat, these would be names for the body in progress
and not merely words for the time of day. If texture were our
primary experience, we might have ways of calling ourselves
to others.
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Four poems By Samiya Bashir
Avoid heavy cottons.
Embrace the blend into a moonless night.
Necessities only: medicine, make-up, moisturizer.
Leave lugging to the muscle.
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Two Poems By Lyn Coffin
Walking hard on a stone beach, both of us
(as we joked) literally around the bend,
we came to where once upon a time a cliff
collapsed-- the wreckage of what had been
a cottage with a view
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For Jermaine, Six, Dead in Boston By Patricia Smith
Spent bullets sparkle on streets grimy with the thud of winter.
Knives bulge odd angles in children’s pockets, and any one
of their upturned words could bring us another you.
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Symptoms of Homesickness by Gabriella R. Talmadge
Constant state of what. Word for word for what.
what wounded. Thirst of what, tending the fires of what.
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Two Poems By Grant Kitrell
Things are not always dead. Dad’s elbow, for instance, I thought I saw it folding in the shallows among the orange tree scraps. Mom dumps them off the end to float the creek.
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