Because of their format, several poems that appear in the current issue are included only in pdf. To read them, click on their titles on the right side of this page.
via Emily Brontë
Such rights are set on texts
outside copyright, and that lake
is its own sphere of influence.
The house was being added to: one
widened room, new wider windows.
I held onto the sawhorse to practice ballet.
So did we get it wrong, those years ago?
That’s “we,” the brainy boys and girls, elite
And blessed in every sort of way, judgmental
To a fault, agnostic to be sure.
When you last saw me I was waiting
and now that you will never see me again
for all you know I still am. The time
it turned out was the last time I was sitting
The first finback whale took an evolutionary leap onto land,
and the president was on TV,
shaking the whale’s fin,
all sleek and blubber.
The TV is on mute: a slender man
in a towel shoos a moth from the sill
of an open door, while on the porch appears
Slow light is breaking
beyond the donkey’s pasture.
Inside the darkened house
brightness rims the shutters.
The harbor hardly sleeps at night, what with
listening in, glittering. Masts hover and sway
while keels answer in watery knocks, their own way
It’s the peeling birch and the lake glimpsed through it,
sheets buckling in wind, the emerald seams of moss
between pavers, three children rounding a bend.
In the Father’s shadowy hoard
pillows belch feathers across
mattress and floors: