Silent Night, by Mary Liza Hartong
Winter was still holding onto spring like a child who refuses to leave her blanket at home.
Thirteen, by Rebecca Foust
I was thirteen, and there was a boy’s mouth / where my legs met.
by Dino Parenti
One unremarkable March day, a man began puncturing random holes in his withered pasture with a post-hole digger.
by Benjamin Aleshire
I travel around the world and strangers pay me to write poems for them on a typewriter in the street—that’s how I’ve made my living for the last eight years.
by Tori Malcangio
In the dark, from my twin bed, I listen to Romy and her latest visitor in the sheets.
by Alle C. Hall
She was eight and at the beach and she felt like a movie star.
by Barbara P. Greenbaum
There is a woman in the booth next to us. / She looks at me as I remove my new hat.
by Renee Agatep
When she finally dies / she’ll meekly ask God why was it all / clattering highchairs, whiskers on stained sinks
by David Watts
At Jenner-by-the-Sea we scurry / over boulders to the place / where the breakers bear down
by Rebecca Foust
I made soup tonight, with cabbage, chard / and thyme picked outside our back door.
by Melissa Hart
On the Friday before Election Day, I shivered on the side of a busy street in Eugene, Oregon wearing a costume from the Disney film Frozen and holding a giant orange sign that read “Do You Want to Build a Democracy?”
by Joseph Fasano
You sit at a window and listen to your father / crossing the dark grasses of the fields