My Broken Brain, by Angie Ellis
I keep a list of songs I know well, so that if I get dementia people can reach the real me hidden inside my broken brain.
Serving, by Kari Gunter-Seymour
Remember that time your dog died and I didn’t tell you for months
by Heather Dobbins
She hasn’t taken off her swimsuit all summer. She is two hands / across her middle. I know that from throwing her: one foot / on my thigh, the other in my palm. Up, over, splash.
by Michael Lauchlan
Among students, I drink the same / coffee I drank at home an hour / ago—which is not some philosophical metaphor.
by Seth Sawyers
In the station a black woman with thick braids played the cello. I thought she was good, but I don’t know if she really was good, because what do I know about the cello?
by Siobhan Adcock
My mother has a cult following. It’s not as big as my father’s, because her band hasn’t sold as many records as his.
by Mathew Javidi
If I could go back, / I would have clutched my tongue, / not let it pirouette into / the soft, dim spotlight of / your living room
by Alicia Lai
Once I entered into a symbiotic relationship with a praying mantis, wings folded / at our altar of Queen Anne’s lace. There is wine on the table—father, please don’t / let the calf bleed on me.
by Molly Fisk
Sometimes what you need is a road / house, blast of laughter and warm air pouring / out the door, where the waitresses know / your name but the customers don’t
by Robert S. King
Here is the last forest that has never / heard the crisp snap of a dollar / or a siren louder than a crow. / Here the wind does not honor / the borders of a deed.
by Julia Lynn Rubin
When I look at the sky, I don’t see color. The man in the rabbit suit doesn’t either. I know this because I asked him one summer, when the air smelled like burning pavement.
by Simon Perchik
This dirt still mimics sweat / lies down alongside, unsure / your lips would quiet it / though the finger that is familiar / probably is yours –could be enough