I folded countless cranes into existence that year—so many that I can now bring them to life through muscle memory—without realizing that some folds, some creases you can never take back.
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InnerChild4U by Bowie Rowan
Imagine you are walking through tall grass, your hand brushing against green blade after blade. Walk through your memories like they are tall blades of grass. Let them brush up against you.
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To See Clearly by Amy Hassinger
A song can be a revelation, a reminder of the continual apocalypse that every living moment brings into being: the now that ends with each phrase, the new now that begins with the next. A song can cut through the smog of fear we breathe each day, helping us to—even if momentarily—see more clearly.
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The Unraveling by Natalie Teal McAllister
The beginnings of new threads emerge. This time she puts her palms against the threads, pushes them back into place on his skin, holds them as one might hold together something glued.
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It's A Long Story by Chelsey Clammer
I needed guidance in accepting and claiming my new identity. I needed some education. I needed empowering language.
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Two Poems by Madison Rahner
Give me Leda with thighs / like bear traps, skull-crushing, ready to rush / the sky on her own wings. Leda who lies / poised, nails polished red on her lush shore.
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Epithalamion by Virginia Konchan
For you, I sat under a yew tree's shade / for a thousand years and did not twitch: / I ate only lemons amid a welter of fruit.
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A Murder of Crows: The Kanye West Conversion
Anyhow, Maura chooses ballet for her son because she’s never seen a coon pirouette a la seconde, never seen an Uncle Tom execute consecutive tour jetes. Ballet is safe (thugs don’t twirl), albeit a little effeminate and her husband Marvin would have a fit if he knew.
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The Fish as Healer by Kelly Gray
By the pressure of water / my arms glide back / seraphic, / my fingers catching in the sea grass. / Here, I pray for the sting of salt in my eyes.
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A Normal Interview with Monica Sok by Mariah Bosch
I write down dreams as they tell themselves to me. I write down as much as I can remember, trying to get the details and the order of events right––not interpreting them but documenting them. But I think there’s a little bit of freedom in figuring out how a dream takes shape on the page.
Read MoreContingency Plans by Belle (Bom) Kim
Perhaps I won't be wholly lost if I can make something from this pain.
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Glades People by Roxane Gay
Tricia loved to talk with her clients. That’s how she judged people.
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Warnings by Rebecca Turkewitz
We heeded most of the warnings most of the time. But we were runners. And no one told the boys’ team to practice in pairs or avoid wearing headphones at night. Besides, when we ran, who could touch us? We were our own private rooms.
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On Epistaxis by Cameron Martin
'I get nosebleeds.' I almost wish we all did at awkward moments. How much more easily the awkwardness might be diffused in the humanizing light of the body’s nor “I get nosebleeds.” I almost wish we all did at awkward moments. How much more easily the awkwardness might be diffused in the humanizing light of the body’s normal frailty.
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Cosmic Latte by Ron Huett
This is my introduction to the word and the last time I will ever speak it against another black person.
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Moles by Kellie Rankey
The behavior seems instinctual; children first meet their mothers, and then they meet the dirt, and the latter may pull them from the former. There is a connection to dirt and digging and digging and the life to be found in layers. All sorts of reasons to love it, they tell us.
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Perennials by Shelley Wong
Still, I lose: I cannot even recall/our common silences. The years have transposed/into any year
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Belly Heat by Eleanor Howell
This was not what she wanted to do with her day. She had meant to spend the afternoon writing a pitch; now she had scramble to protect her body from a mess that she, even in her drunken state, had attempted to prevent.
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Looking by Emma Brousseau
But the man was jealous of even a peek. He took up my entire sightline that day, hanging half his body out of my eye or running between them to try to block every moment alone, every moment trying to see myself.
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Stick After Stick by Joe Griffin
We pulled into the yard and sat in the pickup for a moment, idling in park. 'That was a fucking thing,' said Rob in a low tone. I looked at him, nodding in mute reverence.
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