Samantha Bares | Poetry


Where are you in my delusions? With any luck, I narrate you into diver cobbler or blacksmith, a village treasure. Behold—offstage, the forest crone spinning blind for no one.

Samantha Bares | Poetry2018-11-25T03:15:56-04:00

Kristin Chang | Poetry


Cut the meat / to release its ghosts / Trade yourself / for a girl / who thinks meat is making / a comeback. In / fifth grade my teacher called me / a chink in the armor /

Kristin Chang | Poetry2018-11-25T03:23:57-04:00

Thomas Cook | Poetry


An assault on the stationary floor. The gathering middle. Pray the field clean. Ceramic salsify lies in light. Velvet falcon buttoned in pearls. To your mouth.

Thomas Cook | Poetry2018-11-25T03:24:26-04:00

Marcus Slease | Poetry


Flag prayers to the wind. Jean pulls up her black hoody. You have to protect your face from the wind sez Mina. The cold wind can damage the skin’s barrier.

Marcus Slease | Poetry2018-11-25T03:28:41-04:00

Hannah Beresford | Poetry


Sweet orange almond crumbs stuck to my sweater front as I wobbled into the dining room—having eaten all the leftover naan, flat-out in a stupor on the couch.

Hannah Beresford | Poetry2018-12-27T01:55:30-04:00

Raena Shirali | Poetry


to burning—if i light the sari on the clothesline—if there are many saris hung hem to hem—if they pass the flame like an infant : hem to hem—

Raena Shirali | Poetry2018-12-27T01:58:39-04:00

Tanis Franco | Poetry


on second thought i tried something that was not. i brought my camera thinking i would take beautiful pictures, it was a place to take beautiful pictures. i felt a need to try and capture these.

Tanis Franco | Poetry2018-12-27T02:01:24-04:00

Halie Theoharides | Poetry


*FINAL ROSE is a book-length poem / a body of images / a collection of screenshots taken by Halie Theoharides while watching episodes of The Bachelor. FINAL ROSE will be out from Mount Analogue next fall.

Halie Theoharides | Poetry2018-11-25T03:36:54-04:00

Virginia McLure | Poetry


He shows us his backyard, roosters, limes, a coconut tree, dasheen, aloe like spiked tails. One, I can sell for $50, he says. We ride in a blue-painted boat to the island of birds.

Virginia McLure | Poetry2018-11-25T03:37:33-04:00

Jeremy Radin | Poetry


I’ll be here / slipping on the peels / laughing / slipping on the peels / laughing / practicing for your arrival / a word about what you are afraid of / maybe / meet me here / I am so lonely

Jeremy Radin | Poetry2018-11-25T03:40:19-04:00

E.C. Belli | Two Poems


FIELD GUIDE TO ONENESS It does not begin in an empty room, as one would expect. The field you are standing in does not look onto nothing. In fact,

E.C. Belli | Two Poems2018-12-27T02:04:18-04:00

Chelsey Shannon | Poetry


black medulla “I emulate the black which is a cry but which is not voluptuary like a warning, which has lines, cuts, drips, aspirates, trembles with horror, O black

Chelsey Shannon | Poetry2018-12-27T02:05:20-04:00

Sarah Nichols | Poetry


On Taking Up a Matryoshka Doll Collection All the people I am missing Are stacked matryoshka doll style inside you LOST: LAVENDER AT THE KITCHEN SINK. STEMS FRAYED. Everyone

Sarah Nichols | Poetry2018-12-27T02:06:00-04:00

Tommy Pico | Poetry


NATURE POEM from Nature Poem When a star dies, it becomes any number of things like a black hole, or a documentary. The early universe of our skin was

Tommy Pico | Poetry2018-12-27T02:07:23-04:00

Leslie Shipman | Poetry


At the Sculpture Museum As a child my mother broke the soft wall of my face .....................................The curvilinear of my torn cheek .....................................the model of an arc .....................................floating beneath

Leslie Shipman | Poetry2018-12-27T02:09:52-04:00

Jennifer Fitzgerald | Poetry


Everglades in High Heat mangroves like finger bones dipping into tea stained water warped and bent gators are trained to follow the whirring fan so customers can snap photo

Jennifer Fitzgerald | Poetry2018-12-27T02:12:30-04:00

Brooke Ellsworth | Poetry


RED washing down decongestants with cold coffee reading ur glistening emails just a free-floaty fragment without a torso as if what I was possessed by was your missing arm

Brooke Ellsworth | Poetry2018-12-27T02:13:04-04:00

Adrienne Raphel | Poetry


THE RINGMASTER for CK Williams The ringmaster, gaunt in his overalls, seventeen feet tall with a cigarette, leans on the big top. The lions are early, the tamer, late.

Adrienne Raphel | Poetry2018-12-27T02:13:49-04:00

Jake Skakun | Poetry


Winter in the Wismar 1 Rain bloats the city, sets my marrow to wax. My neighbour's beard is stained an ochre O. I rarely leave. The shrill birds echo

Jake Skakun | Poetry2018-12-27T02:14:37-04:00

Laura Villareal | Poetry


SARDINE SPINE Never have I seen vertebrae so small, so white like a strand of pearls without luster, unclasped. The spine is tenuous, made for a touch more tender

Laura Villareal | Poetry2018-12-27T02:15:12-04:00

Ashley Opheim | Poetry


QUIET INDUSTRY I am sucking on pearls and roasting pears on my body. the vibrant splendour of lilac season is fleeting as a love affair leaves me lush and

Ashley Opheim | Poetry2018-12-27T02:15:58-04:00

Eva HD | Poetry


LOGICAL POSITIVISM Oh, these gorgeous days, whatever's the opposite of pathetic fallacy. The glorious milkdrop sun; the walnut heart's rotten meat. . HERON If only I were a heron,

Eva HD | Poetry2018-12-27T02:18:32-04:00

Ryann Stevenson | Poetry


FUCKING DAFFODILS I turned off. Leaky spout my mind was. I turned off and kept the lights on while I slept. We fucked like deer in prairie grass: camouflaged,

Ryann Stevenson | Poetry2018-12-27T02:19:28-04:00

Sara Ann Sütterlin | Poetry


excerpt from Baveuse (2015), available at Electric Cereal WOMEN WRINKLE You have to be passive to wear Silk . Touching Louise Bourgeois’s spider sculpture was exciting, almost sexual. Ryan didn’t

Sara Ann Sütterlin | Poetry2018-12-27T02:22:27-04:00

Owen Lucas | Poetry


510 Permanence of five o'clock At the in-laws', tired Sunday, Where the light rams down Into soupy, roadside weed, Where the chickadees chatter about A sop of misty seed:

Owen Lucas | Poetry2018-12-27T02:29:34-04:00

Lauren Winchester | Poetry


CONTINUATION A trend of weather emerges: decomposition. The lake is frozen now, the fish strangled. Any weeds, any green there was, flattened by a cap of glass. The fallen

Lauren Winchester | Poetry2018-12-27T02:30:09-04:00

Soren Stockman | Poetry


Elephant Man: Dark Matter Joseph-called-John moves between the pillars on the stage to glimpse the pixies in the lights before him. He creeps close to them and asks every

Soren Stockman | Poetry2018-12-27T02:31:43-04:00

Pui Ying Wong | Poetry


SO GROUNDED For Irene Koronas I cling to objects, for example: a leather-bound book, almanacs, sprigs of dried mints. I would like to build a museum like Pamuk has

Pui Ying Wong | Poetry2018-12-27T02:32:48-04:00

Lucian Mattison | Poetry


SAND PIPERS Chuck clamshells at them for acting mindlessly, these little joggers in bird suits, talons tapping the glass tabletop of ocean spill. They chirp, bicycle miles of sine

Lucian Mattison | Poetry2018-12-27T02:33:40-04:00

Lisa Hiton | Poetry


MAHLER’S NINTH Gone, the pile of shut black mouths bowled in cold water. Gone the thyme and tang of shallot, as the garlic burns in the oil. They whir

Lisa Hiton | Poetry2018-11-25T02:21:43-04:00

Gillian Sze | Poetry


(A skilled calligrapher will tell you that they should “give the impression of a sail filled by the wind.” But a poor first stroke, and the others will “look like lost cotton wads tossed by the wind.”)

Gillian Sze | Poetry2018-11-25T02:26:15-04:00

Diana Khoi Nguyen | Poetry


He is ryegrass. The voices of his heart like tensed wings; ripples in the serum of a stoppered vial. Death is the only word in any language sleeping won't spoil.

Diana Khoi Nguyen | Poetry2018-11-24T15:06:45-04:00

Jessica Scicchitano | Poetry


Ladies, this license plate is your journal, an everlasting ticket up a Northern route where you’ll still have access to electroshock therapy through some faux forest in the middle of the US.

Jessica Scicchitano | Poetry2018-10-22T15:20:09-04:00

Monica McClure | Poetry


TENDER DATA Inquiries feel like enemas What is it called when your fist blooms inside someone The civilization I live in has lost its purpose so I turn to

Monica McClure | Poetry2018-11-03T00:33:49-04:00