This is not a poem of leaving those velveteen branches or that frowning hedge at the yard’s edge. This is not about the brushes left…
This is not a poem of leaving those velveteen branches or that frowning hedge at the yard’s edge. This is not about the brushes left…
You walk Ajax the Dog three times a day, minimum. Often five times, up and down the cobblestones — you chose this…
The figs, arranged in still life, as if by Chardin’s quiet violence; the house exists to hold them. Bruised bodies beaded dark wet, glisten pressed to porcelain in this…
I am teaching Sherman Alexie’s collection The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven in my Native American literature class the week the sexual harassment…
The kitchen full of babies roosting on high shelves like cups for punch one by one she pinches their cheeks sinks in the…
We could live suspicious, breathing to bleed—but my mouth had nothing for strange quiet. I was too much, waiting to make my good…
I. Unmedicated visionary, full-time armchair operator— he could turn a truckbed of scrap lumber to a hen house squared-up enough no fox could slide. Lucky…
a father high and tight, a father reservoir of poses — Farid Matuk, “A Daughter Having Been of the Type” On her first day of…
We fill the void behind our teeth with silence, the grinding of wedding rings against knife handles a language of compatible hollowness. * The neighborhood…
Secret They talk with the lights off, / words kept in bedroom dark so this moment will live / for only them. They speak of…
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