Pos Moua published his first collection of poetry, the chapbook Where the Torches are Burning (Swan Scythe Press) in 2001. His second collection of poetry was recently released, a full length book entitled Karst Mountains Will Bloom (Blue Oak Press,… — Pos Moua published his first collection of poetry, the chapbook *Where the Torches are Burning* (Swan Scythe Press) in 2001. His second collection of poetry was recently released, a full length book entitled *Karst Mountains Will Bloom* (Blue Oak Press, 2019). His poetry explores the depths of love and grief, the natural and spiritual worlds, the body and the soul. *Karst Mountains Will Bloom* has been described as “a landmark achievement: ascendant, transcendent, visionary” by Fresno Poet Laureate Lee Herrick. Poet Mai Der Vang, author of *Afterland* and winner of the 2016 Walt Whitman Award, says that Pos Moua has given readers “radiant language and natural eloquence… the dark and light of his heartscape.” A poet of great grace and honesty, Pos Moua is a pioneer of Hmong American literature and a true visionary.

A Normal Interview with Pos Moua

May 23, 2019

To live in poetry is to be honest.

The Inspired Painting by Derek Updegraff

May 22, 2019

Once a person looked down from a cloud, and she thought to another person…

A Normal Interview with Brian Turner

May 16, 2019

Poetry is a type of internal architecture, a form of world-building done verse by verse.

Stereoscope for Longing by Terin Weinberg

May 15, 2019

“As the mulberries grew
I re-learned the rough trace
of his jawline—the clean bite”

Two Poems by Charlie Oak

May 9, 2019

A flight attendant handed me a tiny bottle of Vodka
and a note, like an antiseptic to the wounds
stowed under the seat in front of me.

Somersault by Mally Zelaya

May 7, 2019

I once got lost in a forest at the bottom of the sea. That’s what I told Suzanne, my therapist, but she didn’t believe me. She gave me that look of hers which always made me feel like a little girl, a lying little girl, a bad little lying girl in need of a scolding. “Seriously,” I said, retreating into the protective breast of her couch. “It’s true.”

Image of broken plate on wooden table, floral patterned, pieces rearranged into shape of a heart.

Birds Sing to Breathe by Joe Bonomo

May 1, 2019

“She sings about idealized romance bruised by clumsy hands; she sings about drinking, and f***ing, and mornings waking up in dubious beds. She sometimes sings about her own career (“Paid”) and about singing. (And singers. Cue up “Steve Earle.”) I’m wondering how much of a story a voice, alone, can tell.”

The Last Missouri Aspens by Annie Sand

May 1, 2019

I glanced at the photograph: a teardrop shape, the size of my palm, its edges toothed with soft points curving up from stem to tip, a yellow aspen leaf. Bigtooth aspens are common in Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, but not in Missouri, where differences in climate and soil hem their natural range. I’d been told that somewhere in Adair County, in a nature preserve called Big Creek, was the last stand of bigtooth aspen known to exist in the state. When I’d found out, I’d immediately called my mother.

“I’ve got your trees,” I told her.

Two Poems by Lisa Ludden

May 1, 2019

Under the pressure of my hands you’d kick.
I’d guess your features, drawing your likeness to mine.

Mostly we were silent, finding our way with each other.
I didn’t have the words, yet.

Writing Instructions for Non-Native Speakers by Robert Anthony Siegel

April 26, 2019

We are placed in a guest house on campus, a sort of rotting cottage out of a folk tale, hidden in a world of its own behind a ten-foot wall of bamboo and flowering bushes. I sprawl on the bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, sweating. I’ve never experienced jet lag this intense.

Two Poems by Saúl Hernández

April 25, 2019

At Night My Body Waits

It’s winter outside, sharp
tree branches scratch
my window, I can hear
the sound of a train
passing. My uncle slips
into my bed and wraps his
hands around my boy body. Tightly
he cups my moon face, and
says, I’m not going to hurt you.

I lie in bed and I think
of my brother and cousins:
Do you keep his little secret too?

My voice underneath the blankets
Grows smaller as his hands feed
off my body. At night, I wake up
to a train in the distance.

At dinner, I see my uncle
in the man sitting next to me
his body asking for more space
as his arm sits on my left leg
adding more weight than
what I already carry.
I become small again
laugh awkwardly.

The man at dinner
tells me to smile more.
In those words I remember
my uncle and I want to yell
rot in hell motherfucker
but the man is not him.

After dinner, I play back
the encounter, I ask myself if what
was underneath my clothes tempted
him like it tempted my uncle to
touch me underneath the blankets.

I know I didn’t lead my uncle to
touch me underneath blankets but
maybe that’s why I sleep naked at
night waiting for my uncle to show up again
in my bed telling me to quiet down as
he puts the hand with which he’d high five me
over my mouth.

When I first came out, mamá asked
if my uncle touched me.
I looked her in the eyes, shook
my head, and I swallowed my uncle
whole again.

Tonight winter comes gently and
in the distance the sound of trains.
I lie naked in bed. My own hands
tempted to touch my body
all the way.

For My Queer Ancestors

Somewhere across the border,
beyond the desert,
beyond cerros,

my family history
is erased each day.
But I only know them by name:

Federico

Elvira

Antonio

Magdalena

Maybe you, too, held
hands with a boy like you
or a girl like you?

Matheo

Griselda

Luis

Zoraida

To take a leap,
means sometimes losing your family:

Gustavo

Micaela

Angel

Esmeralda

If I lose them I will ask
you to help me find myself,

Arnulfo

Esperanza

Luis Mario

Marisol

If you can read this
I’m losing myself.

In Mexico, l ask my
grandfather if anyone in
our family is gay
he says, in nuestra sangre

there aren’t any of them,
And I say:

Tomas

Francis

Juan Jośe

But he walks away.

Saúl Hernández is a queer writer from San Antonio, TX. He was raised by undocumented parents and as a Jehovah Witness. Saúl has a MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Texas at El Paso. He’s been featured on the radio show Words On a Wire, where he discussed gender roles and read a poem titled “Tortillas.” He’s the former Director for Barrio Writers at Borderlands; a writing workshop for the youth to learn, craft, and perform their work, as well as be published in a yearly anthology by SFA Press. He's a semi-finalists for the 2018 Francine Ringold Award for New Writers, Nimrod Literary Journal, and a quarter-finalist for The Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, Nimrod Literary Journal. His work has been featured in Rio Grande Review, Brunch Club in Association with Hello Mr. and Adelaid Literary Magazine. His work focuses on the dangers of existing and being a threat to oneself. He teaches Advance Placement Language and Composition at a high school.

Photo by SubodhBharati on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-ND

Stark Naked Night by Kylie Whitehead

April 23, 2019

The old woman’s stark nakedness shone brightly, and juxtaposed against the tarmac. She looked just like the moon in the night sky. But just as she was a reflection of all that was above, she was also a reflection of all that was below, all that came before and all that would come after. She was the sky and the ground, the heavens and the underworld. She was everything. She was the first person I had seen in weeks.

Transgender Heroic: All This Ridiculous Flesh by Kayleb Rae Candrilli

April 22, 2019

I could say I am simple—my heart
again a newborn with a shelf life.
But there is nothing simple about
my body and its fruity orbit around
the sun.

Great American Pastime by Dan Pinkerton

April 16, 2019

Though Mercer had good speed at the leadoff spot, he struck out often and was a liability in the field, so it shocked no one when Coach Burgus benched him. Well, almost no one. His father leapt from his chair. He was one of those middle-aged hipsters with the soul patch and visor and frosted tips. His wraparound shades, synthetic tan, and artsy tattoos had all been ordered from some catalog of cool. That’s what we figured, anyway, those of us without access to any such catalog.

You Can't Have It All by Caits Meissner

April 11, 2019

You can't have it all. But you can have a window, a light switched on, a door to close. You can find a clear pool in the mind to dip your toes clean as a fish.

We, Little Griefs by Brit Barnhouse

April 10, 2019

Who knew sand could inspire We
baked in the sun I climbed into caves

there are 156 women in the courtroom and at least a 100 more outside and we will make space for them all, yes, we will by Aliceanna Stopher

April 9, 2019

At the end of the path are the woods, which, of course, are necessary. The dirt path smells of cedar, pencil shavings, tired beginnings. When the red-hooded girl-child begins her journey she walks in halting steps, fearful of scuffing her church shoes. Mama said be careful, mama said keep tidy. One step, pause, bend at waist, swat at patent leather, unbend, step again.

2019
Children’s Literature
Simon and Schuster
ISBN: 978-15344436794

A Normal School Interview with Joe McGee and Jess Rinker

April 3, 2019

There is so much more to living life as an author, to being a professional writer. Anyone can sit down and write something. A professional offers more than just their words on the page. We are writing, giving something of ourselves to the world. So be available. Share yourself with your readers, with other writers trying to learn the craft. You should lift up the art. Lift up other writers. It is selfish to stay in your clique.

Nina by Hannah Pass

April 2, 2019

Eva and I puncture six holes in the lid. We give her a napkin for bedding and a torn page of a book. Reading material. Then, crumbles of the peanut butter protein bar she’d eat before long morning runs. We bring her along on our dinner date, lady’s night, so she won’t feel left out. Eva figures: we can fulfill Nina’s basic needs and still keep our distance. It’ll be easy!