By Sarah Carson
The first gun we knew came in a toolbox for the apocalypse: hammer, barrel, crushed can, pack of Newports…
Explore Poems: Home Life
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- By Chaelee DaltonConsider the market. Consider the gross domestic product of Korea. Call it Kimchi.
Ferment culture in… - By Anastasia Taylor-Lindv.
Isn’t it dangerous to be a woman? Surrounded by men, questions
about risk-taking, parenting (I’m childless… - By Li-Young LeeAnother word for father is worry.
Worry boils the water
for tea in the middle of the night.
Worry trimmed… - By Sharon OldsBut I love the I, steel I-beam
that my father sold. They poured the pig iron
into the mold, and it fed out slowly,
a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened,
Bessemer, blister, crucible, alloy, and he
marketed it, and bought bourbon, and... - By Karl KnightsIt’s Boxing Day and I’m nearly ten and a half.
I got the camouflaged Action Man for Christmas.
I told … - By Petr HruškaTranslated By Jonathan BoltonTrue darkness is in a child’s bedroom. Deep black.
Elsewhere there’s just a meager, watery twilight… - By Petr HruškaTranslated By Jonathan BoltonTwo days of rain. Children on the floor. Scant trees.
The furniture confesses to the boards. Reaching… - By Angela Jackson1. Yellow paint on brush.
Black body leaning in wind.
Mustached man. Father.
2. House yellow… - By Xiao Yue ShanI could tell you this: marigolds are a night flower.
in the hour of my birth there were men in the streets… - By Maya MarshallThe myth is Grandaddy’s mother
birthed twelve children
by twelve discrete men. I asked what she did for… - By Bertrand N. O. WalkerHush thee and sleep, little one,
The feathers on thy board sway to and fro;
The shadows reach far downward… - By Suzanne S. RancourtI can remember my father bringing home spruce gum.
He worked in the woods and filled his pockets
with … - By Richard SikenDriving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make
the new streets… - By Jean ValentineThe hornet holds on to the curtain, winter
sleep. Rubs her legs. Climbs the curtain.
Behind her the cedars sleep lightly,
like guests. But I am the guest.
The ghost cars climb the ghost highway. Even my hand
over the page adds to the ‘room... - By Julien StrongEventually my stepfather grew tired
of his exile in the basement
and left. She wept and begged him
not to go but he packed his Hummingbird
guitar and soldering irons and moved in
with a woman he’d met at the corner store.
And my mother took... - By Julien Strongmy mother tells me, and proceeds
to elaborate at gruesome length.
But don’t all gods and heroes get off
to a rocky start? Young Theseus thrashed
in his fish shack, Zeus sent abroad to avoid
being lunch for his dad. I am twelve
and obsessed with... - By Kiki PetrosinoSo I lean back & Redford asks, “Water warm enough?”
& I don’t answer because I’m holding my breath.
I don't know why he asks.
He never uses the faucet to shampoo my afro—just an old clay jar.
Redford fills the jar at the... - By James CagneyI stood on the ledge
of the bathroom sink
irritated, resolved
my mother’s clippers
a growling chainsaw
in my hand.
I recalled my cousin––
seven years older––
who humbly bragged
over three fresh pubic cords
he found freshly minted
falling through his fingers.
... - By Sharon OldsI did not deserve to be beaten,
and I did not deserve ballet lessons––
except insofar as everyone deserves ballet lessons.
Me mum thought I was well worth beating.
She would not have thought that I deserved to starve.
I deserved the milk in her...