By R. L. Swihart
The young man says, “Alan can do anything he wants”“Not fly,” I sayThe young man returns a puzzled look...
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- By Matthew RohrerReading a kind of laborious poem about rural things and a horse is shot for breaking its leg. I still...
- By Tomás Q. MorínIn this life, there are starsand there are stunt doubles.Before I became one of those fathersobsessed...
- By Alison C. RollinsI am a product of my time. Time is a body that resembles a sound without a scale. Forever foreclosed...
- By Cedric Tillmanyou know I ain’t mess w/you ’cause of yo’ friends wouldn’t have you caught slummin’ know you hood 'cause...
- By Kimiko Hahni. I am in the middle of “The Fourteen Poems" by Sun Bu-er (“Clear and Calm Free Human”), Taoist and...
- By Kevin YoungThe heart, it hoards— how I know this— The small, strangled shining room Keats lost his life in—and...
- By Omar SakrI slip into my insolence, sleek as an eel. I have walked so many ways around God I can tell you Holiness...
- By Omar SakrA lover undresses, with permission. Picture the body becoming real. I picture becoming real intimate...
- By Omar SakrI lift him out, whole and perfect. Said told me he would be here, chained by Dante To the eighth circle...
- By Haki R. MadhubutiFrequently during my mornings of pain & reflection when I can’t write or articulate my thoughts or locate...
- By Jamila Woodsi caught my breath & called that life i cannot be comprehended it is better to write spit out words ...
- By T. S. EliotI. The Burial of the Dead April is the cruellest monthApril is the cruellest month The Waste Land begins with...
- By Barbara Claire FreemanDear Necessity, the magnitude and difficulty of the trust to which the voice of my country has called...
- By T. S. EliotWebster was much possessed by death And saw the skull beneath the skin; And breastless creatures under...
- By Joshua EdwardsI read the same book over and over, as much to have a familiar thing to hold as to forget how far I ...
- By L.A. JohnsonThe book from the archive whispers with handwriting. A gold pen shines the name of every man, his every...
- By Nikki GrimesI am a door of metaphor waiting to be opened. You’ll find no lock, no key. All are free to enter, at...
- By Joyce Sidman“That kid is weird,” says the teacher, flipping her shining hair. “I don’t know where he’s at.” Indeed...
- By Naomi Shihab Nye1 Standing outside staring at a tree gentles our eyes We cheer to see fireflies winking again Where ...