Aim, by Rebecca Foust
Two Poems, by Karen Paul Holmes
When fifteen hours of Wagner’s Ring draws to a close, please Siegfried, don’t take the potion making you forget Brünnhilde.
My father puts the milk carton / on the kitchen table. Declares, She bought it—before.
If Pastor Dale’s deer-stand was built as a place from which to squeeze a hair trigger, it also ladled up a grand view of the valley below, thick with hickory, sycamore, and elm.
One night in my mid-teens, I was under the covers in my sister’s bedroom, deep asleep, while flames spread from a nearby candle.
Technically, you needed only one eye to take a photo, but you needed the other to see.
Over the next few weeks, a series of strange and unsettling incidents occurred. On more than one night, Glory was jarred from sleep by angry shouts coming from across the street.
Doctors cannot tell you when you’re born / how many pitches your arm contains.
In your next life you will be / birthed in needles / of hoarfrost, your eyes still / in the blue gauze between
You can die in January if you want, / and lots of people do, but this far north, / nobody gets into the ground till spring.
There’s a piano player in the restaurant on the night Zoe tells you she’s pregnant.