TagPoetry

Illustration by Mormei Zanke Angle of repose Poem by Michael Pendreigh Foreshocks ignored: reliving her soft temples against my thumbs kiss her forehead. Now she is a foot away a canyon between us, paralyzed on the fringe in a frozen state seized by the seventh Hades. A gust of wind beckons her body to mine: let

I Open My Mouth Poem by Rachel Kim I open my mouth to speak and blossoms tumble off my tongue— thin wet petals wrinkled, ripped, stemless, so they wither before they’re dried and hung on someone’s wall. I open my mouth to speak and a cactus anchors itself in my throat with needles full of

A house named history Poem by Maneo Mohale The house that I inhabit is dimly lit In the evening, windows glow like amber from where I stand outside The short shards of conversation and sharp barks of laughter burst behind me on the dusty street My hand grips the black metal gate, wanting to pull

A Rabbit on the Way Home Poem by Ming Wong “not gonna lie I hit a rabbit on the way home tonight so I was coming home from the bar had a couple whole bunch of trees and its dark and it ran out in front of my car like it had a death wish

That river’ll suck you up and spit you out Poem by Steph Airth At Thanksgiving and Christmas, my dad’s company truck trundles up under a patina of Mary Hill grit to take me back to where I’m from. Where I’m from is oh, just an hour or so east. You probably haven’t heard of it.

Ladybug Girls Poem by Charmaine Li In third grade, when the bell rings at 12:10, we dash out–– in our green tunic dresses of Scottish plaid, worn blue sweaters, and untucked shirts.   It’s the first warm sigh of spring and the big, big tree that stands behind the playground has arms and fingers that

Dreams of Perelman Poem by Quincy Arthur Planes of white, horizonless, like the muted orange of sunlight with eyes closed. The bedraggled Russian Grisha perched on the pointilist surface of a straight line extending forever that way towards the East if where I’m facing is North. Squinting doesn’t help. I’m drawn back to the tangible

Thinking of You on the way from German to 19th Century Lit. Poem by Katie Selbee We oldes Soules are, my dear; old as coverless volumes and bronze lamps with chain pulls, button-tufted arm-chairs with embroidered floral patterns and monstrous glass cabinets housing curious objects but o, o when we kiss you grip meine Haare

  14 poem by Haley Whishaw It’s Sunday. It’s Sunday because through the window, past the half-bloom rhododendrons and before the forest filled with bee-eating birds, the car doors of the Baptists, or the Jehovah’s witnesses, or the Unitarians are slamming and popping like the rain that has crept across the white ceiling paint as

Natural History poem by Katie Selbee Good question. The mountains me and you we fit so well together like the rock faces of the Rockies I pointed out to you the other day out the car window that maybe you were looking at or maybe ha ha knowing you you were thinking of the Cold

It’s funny what you don’t recall poem by Stephanie Airth when a friend points a knife that bites at you both and seems made of light when it shines in the (dark bright burn orange soft white streetlamp, she steps in front of (him the knife his face past describing her heart is six shriveled

  To Remember a Poem poem by Billy Kwan A minute to half-past twelve. The moon’s sphere of light hides behind veils of clouds. You tilt your head back. Thoughts descend like mist that hovers around the ankles. The trickiest part is always some other thing than a thought; so you begin to forget. The

Crocodylia poem by Jason Fernando He sat heavily on the cushioned surface, eyes jittering out the window. Inside, a warm room, its low-lit scenery accented by the blue-cold glare emanating from beyond café windows, those moderating view-panes and embassies to the external. Outside, cool air shifted imperceptibly in convective motions, as visibly all was still

Presage poem by Mo Lawrence I woke and wondered how to go about pronouncing presage. In this, I pronounced the wondering, but could not pronounce the presage. In this, presage was palimpsest: a Thing made Things in chord. Can the poem presage if I cannot not muck the meter? Yes: It can presage a decline.

I Pick You Up at the Airport poem by Sara Dueck You pop out at holidays, my birthday, In August stepping down to the tarmac.  My air conditioning broke last month and Beads of wax run down Your face.  Thirsty Trees line up.  You look out the back windows. I told you You could have