Aim, by Rebecca Foust
Two Poems, by Karen Paul Holmes
Let’s make a wedding photo, you and I. / I’m blind and you weren’t there, but between us / we can do this.
February 3, 1946. Rain pounded the railcar’s roof. Karl felt as if inside a drum. A stuffy drum, smelling of wet wool and unwashed bodies.
In the North Country, there are blues so perfect / you want to tear your heart out to be alive / and sober.
The only work he could find was at the truckers’ paradise on the north side of town where the main drag reverts into a numbered highway heading straight into whatever freezing nothing abounds above us.
It was Rocket Night at our daughter’s elementary school, the night when parents, students, and administrators gather to place the least-liked child in a rocket and shoot him into the stars.
On the playground I strum guitar while my daughter dangles upside down from the bar above the tall slide, and inside my middle-aged brain a movie plays.
by Allan Peterson
I believe it was either forever or an eight / no longer lazy on the page, / because things took longer after that, / had longer lifetimes, / and that was their sign in continuous curls.
by Hilary Dean
You think Fine Arts is going to be a bird degree and then you have to take classes all through the summer and talk about art until you want to kill yourself and also everyone else.
by Beth Bilderback
This couch was made for grownups, vintage grownups of the 1930s, cinch-waisted female grownups and men who wore hats and drank martinis.