Poetry

You have no trouble spotting them: what’s left of a fox pancaked to asphalt, the bunny, upchucked, a frayed braid of guts where its head was, the...

What alarmed you, O sea, that you fled? River Jordan, that you ran backward? — Psalms 114:5   After the thrill-flash in the storm-dark, chant-count your prayers, a child’s...

  Jody Baltessen: This series of poems was written during Covid19 lockdowns in Winnipeg (Manitoba, Canada). As with many others, I found myself needing to walk,...

Fire is an aria, not a red curtain. What survived? A filing cabinet, a pair of diamond earrings, a skillet. Fire is a contest, not a medal. What...

Listen to the poem read by the author:     Image: by Lesly Juarez, licensed under CC 2.0. Chime Lama: “Grateful Criss Cross” began as a poetry prompt by...

ONCE, MORE THAN ONCE Huffing and puffing, Dr. Frye arrived late in the evening to visit Northridge Hospital. Frey would worry about my tragedy, already learning my brain...

Heath, here I am, still, whisk in hand, dusting bubbling butter with flour in this Brooklyn kitchen, waiting for flame to toast away the raw flavor the way...

There were little blue flowers that rang when you touched them, he said, and tasted like honey. Then he stopped talking. Palm fronds and eucalyptus. Grasses rising, thickening as...

We follow the robin as long as we can, our eyes tracing the curlicue of her path. She hops behind bushes and we crouch to find her....

Maybe Lucie never went back home much because there was less Pittsburgh left, let it go all at once rather than suffer the many pieces not in her books of...

We make the landlords laugh with our black southern black ways. We know to say nothing of the one-legged spirit balancing on their shoulders. When the landlords speak...

I stop for the view on the horizon, it’s true, or partly true every place is a vista I keep going to. It’s true, or partly true I can’t...