For me, the way that I’ve learned to access faith or my relationship with God is primarily through poetry. It is this dynamic, ongoing process, and I think that that’s the way that faith has to live in me.
Read MoreTwo Poems by Robin LaMer Rahija
we forced open small holes and planted / their delicate bodies, covered / the white network / of translucent roots. / We watered them and waited.
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Bulletproof by Bethany Marcel
Monica felt her soul leaving her body. It traveled up into the organic, free-range rafters, then looked down at Monica, and laughed and laughed.
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Nature Morte by Michelle Orabona
Get out of the house, they said. Do something. Make something. Be something. They knew, they understood. But it was time, they said. We’re just trying to help, just looking out for you, just trying to help you move on, carry on, get through it, over it, past it.
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Two Poems by Chris Haven
They are relic and untouchable. They move older than direction, under timelapse skies.
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Two Poems by Sarah Wetzel
we forced open small holes and planted / their delicate bodies, covered / the white network / of translucent roots. / We watered them and waited.
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Onomatopoeia by Robert Yune
Mostly, I marveled at the sound the ring made against the floor—it was a persistent, golden tone that hovered in the air while splitting it. Even decades after I’ve forgotten Damien’s face and voice, I can almost see that sound, can picture that particular vibration in the air.
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Something About Mangoes by Courtney Lund O’Neil
I stopped by the gas station to pick up Christie’s favorite slim Capri cigarettes, two packs. When you were dying, cigarettes and calories didn’t matter.
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Boyfriend Material by Garrett Ashley
As if to interrupt the growing rift in mine and Don's own relationship, the swearing and physical brawls, broken lamps and TV remotes, Don's cousin made the leap to split with her boyfriend, and so she asked for a little help getting back onto her feet.
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A Normal Interview with Melissa Febos by M.D. McIntyre
It feels important to acknowledge that I come to theory—and I include theory in my work—out of a place of unknowing, and I don’t privilege that language and work over a sort of simple, straightforward description of experience.
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Anniversary by Simona Zaretsky
I want to have no synonym. No confusion with the other lost children, who cry quietly because they haven’t been young since grief froze fingers and toes, took hearts and squeezed them of decadent innocence, dripping away like rose-colored honey.
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Landscapes of a Pandemic by Teow Lim Goh
Here I skate 10 km, bringing my season total to 191 km. Dust on crust, and I come out early enough that I make first tracks. What I do not yet know is that this will be the last picture that I would take before we go into lockdown.
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Two Poems by Chloe Martinez
You were looking for water, as you // (or some other five hundred ants) / always do in the heat, in September.
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A Muscle the Size of Your Fist, and It Pounds by Ashlee Laielli
Under glow-in-the-dark planets and stars, with his blonde head upon my chest and my arms wrapped tight around him, I promised, “I will write it down, I will remember,” as I rocked us back and forth.
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Four Poems by Kristene Kaye Brown
I am slow to recall / how easy the heart / of a yard / can grow soft and green / again / come Spring.
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Until It Hits Something Solid by Daniel Mazzacane
Wilder met Corey four months after moving to Oakhurst when Wilder managed to get a spot on the logging crew mid-season.
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Scar by Cat Ennis Sears
You try on different narratives. holding each one in your hands, then wearing it like a cloak for a time before changing into another one.
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Rishtein (Relationships and/or Proposals) by Nimra Azmi
Of the one hundred kilograms of loneliness in her body, these interactions managed to keep perhaps half a kilo at bay.
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King and Lionheart by Sarah Gorham
The best way to cradle an infant is skin to skin. Rocking imitates the motion of amniotic fluid. It’s common knowledge that a lullaby coaxes a baby to sleep, slowing the child’s heartbeat and breath.
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Atmosphere in Our Bullshit Little Town by Bryce Berkowitz
Most days, we skateboarded / like the sky was spilling out of our pockets-- / our crusty teenage hearts stuck in a cyclone / of a going nowhere town
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