There is security camera proof of where and how my father fell. The evidence shows that there was no daughter beside him.
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Reconsider the Lobster by Kathryn Gougelet
The black eyes of one of the biggest ones swiveled, probing the air for information about this sterile fluorescent place. Its eyes swiveled in our direction. Fisherman and writers: we were a human blur.
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Two Poems by Mark Irwin
We were Americans, black, white. We were Asians, Slovak,
Italian, and Poles, all of mixed descent, all at this school
of advanced learning, learning different and new ways to kill,
asking always the same question. How far is the enemy?
Dear Daughters, Dear Linda: Essays from 'Terrible Crystals' by Victoria Chang
Saying things others want to hear is easy for an immigrant’s child because language is theatrical.
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Is it Me?, or Withering Sadness, Self-pity, Loneliness, Abandonment, Spiritual Desperation, the Loss of Romance, of Love and of Childhood as well as the more obvious Rage and Frustration by Joe Bonomo
The story of one’s adolescence, choked with romantic notions, wordless dreams far more exciting than tedious daily life, is difficult to tell with a clear beginning-middle-end. And I think Townshend knew that.
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Only Obligation by Kathryn Waring
Obligation, defined as: “an act to which a person is morally or legally bound.” Or, as a verb: “to make someone indebted by conferring a kindness.”
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Neural Pathways to Love by Jody Keisner
Time plus love equals ordinary disappointments, which as it turns out, has been enough to harm the good feelings and brain reactions Jon and I used to have for one another.
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Leatherface by Carol Claassen
“In the past two years she’s known him, he’s told her almost everything about the movie. No surprises. She knows how it ends.”
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“I saw an opportunity to approach this very serious history from a different angle” - Maceo Montoya
A Normal Interview with Maceo Montoya
I saw an opportunity to approach this very serious history from a different angle.
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Home by David L. Ulin
“Still, what else does New York provoke but memory — for me, anyway, who hasn’t lived here for more years than my children have been alive?”
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Two Poems by Alan Chazaro
Today I learned how to jungle walk while chucking clouds
from cliff sides & ruins aren't really ruined
Sun Orange, a Poem by Lauren Hilger
In California, we sat around a fire and I broke the code.
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Pos Moua published his first collection of poetry, the chapbook Where the Torches are Burning (Swan Scythe Press) in 2001. His second collection of poetry was recently released, a full length book entitled Karst Mountains Will Bloom (Blue Oak Press, 2019). His poetry explores the depths of love and grief, the natural and spiritual worlds, the body and the soul. Karst Mountains Will Bloom has been described as “a landmark achievement: ascendant, transcendent, visionary” by Fresno Poet Laureate Lee Herrick. Poet Mai Der Vang, author of Afterland and winner of the 2016 Walt Whitman Award, says that Pos Moua has given readers “radiant language and natural eloquence… the dark and light of his heartscape.” A poet of great grace and honesty, Pos Moua is a pioneer of Hmong American literature and a true visionary.
A Normal Interview with Pos Moua
To live in poetry is to be honest.
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The Inspired Painting by Derek Updegraff
Once a person looked down from a cloud, and she thought to another person…
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A Normal Interview with Brian Turner
Poetry is a type of internal architecture, a form of world-building done verse by verse.
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Stereoscope for Longing by Terin Weinberg
“As the mulberries grew
I re-learned the rough trace
of his jawline—the clean bite”
Two Poems by Charlie Oak
A flight attendant handed me a tiny bottle of Vodka
and a note, like an antiseptic to the wounds
stowed under the seat in front of me.
Somersault by Mally Zelaya
I once got lost in a forest at the bottom of the sea. That’s what I told Suzanne, my therapist, but she didn’t believe me. She gave me that look of hers which always made me feel like a little girl, a lying little girl, a bad little lying girl in need of a scolding. “Seriously,” I said, retreating into the protective breast of her couch. “It’s true.”
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Juan Felipe Herrera has said of Sara Borjas’ first book, Heart Like a Window, Mouth Like a Cliff, “This is a groundbreaker. Good-bye to fashionable old stuff, adios to the graspable that can never be touched. Come to the fearless. A brava-shaking collection.” It has been referred to as autobiographical, but it is more a consideration of the speaker’s identity, place, loss, love, and perseverance.
A Normal Interview With Sarah Borjas
When we are heartbroken, we aren’t at a loss. We are resourceful. We are still here.
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Birds Sing to Breathe by Joe Bonomo
“She sings about idealized romance bruised by clumsy hands; she sings about drinking, and f***ing, and mornings waking up in dubious beds. She sometimes sings about her own career (“Paid”) and about singing. (And singers. Cue up “Steve Earle.”) I’m wondering how much of a story a voice, alone, can tell.”
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