Because of their format, several poems that appear in the current issue are included as pdfs. To read them, click on their titles below or on the right side of this page.
Dear son of mine, dear daughter,
the forecast called
for a fine evening, and we
did laugh at first, but then we bawled;
I am not supposed to be writing poetry,
I am supposed to be turning up my nose
And taking revenge.
D. consciously left temporarily the death idea kept
as dogs in houses. Phenomenal D. did. Who could
fathom it on a scale of empty? Nothing fit.
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.