So I imagine my rickety-clickety little car didn’t frighten him much. I remember that he was thoroughly gracious. And tall. Very tall.
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Thera by Kristian Macaron
I know I am not empty -- life inside me / is grit and blood and a light buried in / sinew which has made me this star
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A Normal Interview with Andrés Cerpa by Rebeca Abidail Flores
Constructing the book is a device for me as a writer to enter it more fully. I like to drop myself in. If I’m there mid-sentence, mid-story, if everything is kind of jumbled, then maybe I can catch the momentum that I had previously and continue on riffing.
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Mornings Are The Hardest by Sarah Terez Rosenblum
Does the girl’s desperation feed the thing’s obstinance? Years ago someone (one of the experts?) told the girl that she’s in control; she has choices. But how can that be when occasionally , no matter which button the girl pushes, the thing takes actions paradoxical and perverse?
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Echoes and Ecotone by Maya Jewel Zeller
When I think of ethnopoetics and the poem as a house, I am immediately drawn to ecopoetics, the ecotone, the edge-things, the house that moves, the shape of something inhabited, like a shell, empty, then full. Too full. Sometimes binding, if it isn’t time to be bound.
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A Normal Interview with Michael Chin by Mialise Carney
I came around to the idea of this book being a lot like the storytelling I would do in early romantic relationships, when I wanted so badly to share my whole whole world with this person who felt vitally important to me, who I couldn’t wait to have fully immersed in my life and the world I’d known.
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Two Flash Fiction Pieces by Rita Feinstein
He looks at me so suddenly that I return to my body in pins and needles. For a moment there, I’d forgotten I exist.
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Something of Home by Brian Simoneau
When you’re young, cities seem magnificent no matter what. Wide-eyed/ you look up to all the buildings crowned with wreaths of ice, speak fondly/ all the streets, mouth full with knowing This is home.
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Something To Remember Me By by Gabrielle Brant Freeman
I gift you rough ditches / where I search for purple fists / of thistle. I suck hard / the sweet petals like spears / all the way down / to the stinging white heart.
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Two Poems by Jennifer Lynn Krohn
they want a corpse, / a girl who'll only grow / skinnier with rot. A girl / who will disappear / into a handful of dust.
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Women's Work by Celeste Colgan
I never learned. In a year’s time, Mother, Buck, and the chicken coop were gone. Aunt Betty bought chickens already drawn at the meat counter. I thought a lot about beheadings.
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Door Girl by Candace Jane Opper
The whole institution seemed to exist by and for men, particularly male musicians, and more particularly male musicians who’d fully bought into the fantasy of rock and roll, which essentially resembles the kind of up-all-night debauchery romanticized in Cameron Crowe’s semi-autobiographical Almost Famous.
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Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
Two Poems by Nicholas Gruber
i brush my cheek with a lover so bewildered by kissing, he detonates / my clenched gristle instead. in red honey clothes, i am similar flesh / & you know new lovers: always making do.
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A Normal Interview with Leah Silvieus and Lee Herrick, by Bradley Samore
For me, the way that I’ve learned to access faith or my relationship with God is primarily through poetry. It is this dynamic, ongoing process, and I think that that’s the way that faith has to live in me.
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Nature Morte by Michelle Orabona
Get out of the house, they said. Do something. Make something. Be something. They knew, they understood. But it was time, they said. We’re just trying to help, just looking out for you, just trying to help you move on, carry on, get through it, over it, past it.
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Two Poems by Chris Haven
They are relic and untouchable. They move older than direction, under timelapse skies.
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Two Poems by Sarah Wetzel
we forced open small holes and planted / their delicate bodies, covered / the white network / of translucent roots. / We watered them and waited.
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Landscapes of a Pandemic by Teow Lim Goh
Here I skate 10 km, bringing my season total to 191 km. Dust on crust, and I come out early enough that I make first tracks. What I do not yet know is that this will be the last picture that I would take before we go into lockdown.
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A Muscle the Size of Your Fist, and It Pounds by Ashlee Laielli
Under glow-in-the-dark planets and stars, with his blonde head upon my chest and my arms wrapped tight around him, I promised, “I will write it down, I will remember,” as I rocked us back and forth.
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Four Poems by Kristene Kaye Brown
I am slow to recall / how easy the heart / of a yard / can grow soft and green / again / come Spring.
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