The sky is not blue in all places
There are mountains, there are trees
There are no mountains, there are trees
Yet the sky here is higher
The shadows follow me
The outlines around the objects
My imagination of the …
Since 1968
50, Poetry by Leila Seyedzadeh
The sky is not blue in all places
There are mountains, there are trees
There are no mountains, there are trees
Yet the sky here is higher
The shadows follow me
The outlines around the objects
My imagination of the …
49, Poetry by Adele Williams
I find myself with a bit in my mouth from time
to time. That means that I am bearing all the weight.
That means that I am bridled and tamed. I am
certainly carrying a man— I may or …
49, Poetry by Lilith Acadia
A horse
Leans into the coyote’s attack,
Presses against teeth,
Submits to claws, to
Defer the pain
of Torn flesh, of
Severance.
You, a horse,
Leave your last happiness,
Fly across the Atlantic to the father who
Pounded worthlessness …
49, Poetry by Mercedes Lawry
wide hemisphere of roiling and din
flung mud as a tank rolls by
soon blood will river the road
the emptying of soul in order to
kill, obey orders, kill
who we are in the shadows
across the border, arms …
at a Love’s travel stop, through the portal of Love’s travel
a day’s idle moving, nothing crystallized,
mildly frictionless, and further only feeling
we’ve been at this stop before…
overlapping patterns ripple at edges
merge into that which bonds us, …
49, Poetry by Caroline Laganas
Even after twenty years on North Chelton Road,
I never ate a plum from the tree my dad planted
in our backyard because the deer always beat me
before I could know what came from the blossoms
they nibbled on, …
More than her doped mouth, it is her unfocused gaze that convinces the researcher that his assistant isn’t listening. How is he to instruct her properly? |
||
The researcher is stroking his beard & the assistant is |
He’s gorgeous, his brother—looks like Jared Leto.
In front of us the Grasshoppers
making quick work of the Ashville Tourists.
A row behind, Kathy’s friend Shannon—
hotdog in hand, oversized beer between the knees—
hungry for more about my brother.…
In August, the summer grew hips. We dipped
our tongues into scoops of ice cream round as
the moon. You dug up a dead tree in the garden
to make room for new growth. The deeper you dug,
the …
49, Poetry by Sarah Cavar
by which I mean, suitcase, by which I mean
my father, who is like a pancake
or a sugarless plane ticket:
Flat, such that the boarding
of him’s near-natural, all neutral,
shirt falling unheeded from neck to nip to
slender …