Remains, by Maureen Simons
They came back every year to lay flowers at the spot. Two little girls, hand in hand, walked soundlessly up Nora’s driveway.
For My Siren, by Emily Bornstein
Don’t tell me there isn’t something pretty about you / (don’t tell me you don’t know it).
by Robert Wexelblatt
You will appreciate that the title of my lecture is ironic. As yet, there has been no last philosopher, nor do I think there is likely to be one.
by Sean Beaudoin
My room is tiny and dark and smells like sweaty sheets. The window is wide open, but there’s still no air. A heavy pre-lightning gloom overwhelms my clankity-clank fan.
by Hélène Cardona
On a visit to my ancestors I’m shown / into the palace of hypnotists / through a small entrance and grand rounding staircase, / each step a drawer containing sculptures.
by Kenneth Robbins
Where: the ninth floor of the Ritz Building, downtown in a median American city on the Southern side of the Mason Dixon Line, a city like Jacksonville, Savannah, or Montgomery, or none of them, or all of them.
translated by Len Krisak
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) is one of the most influential poets in German literature. Following are new translations of four of Rilke’s poems from his 1907 work Neue Gedichte.
by Robert S. King
This was not my house the day / it grew smaller over my shoulder. / The family my blind rage left would not / know me now, nor would I know more / than who they were.
by Michael O’Keefe
I want you to know two little known facts about me. One: I don’t like name-dropping. Hate it. Loathe it. Abhor it. Really. And I don’t like name-droppers either.
by Dino Parenti
He’d pick me up from Mama’s early Saturday while she slept, always waiting in his truck down the street and staring down the sun while gnashing on a spicebush twig.
by Midge Raymond
We’re having the same argument before my sister and her kids come over for a barbecue. I’m running out of reasons he hasn’t heard before, so I tell him, “This morning I saw a woman at Stop & Shop with a bullet on her key chain.”
by Joyce Sutphen
Somehow, it keeps itself in tune. / Each key remembers its name / and loves its neighbors— / black and white.