Zilla, 2015, by Jeff Somers
When she signed the lease and moved her stuff into the place, she knew she was leaning into a decline she’d begun some time before.
On Learning That My Daughter’s Rapist Has Been Taught to Write a Poem, by Katharyn Howd Machan
about his sadness. / About how the moon hung full / that morning, every morning
by Justin Hamm
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.
by Natalie Homer
I wish the wild mint would bake its scent into my skin, / and I could drag it behind me, as if it were a train of silvery lace. / It never does, and that’s okay.
by Andrea Hansell
I’m famous, and my sister Christine is ordinary. Saying it straight out like that feels strange, but it’s true. We’re identical twins, a fact that fascinates people.
by Isabella David McCaffrey
She says, “To write poetry about sacred spaces, I must understand what I mean by sacred spaces, il faut comprendre premièrement ce que je veux dire par Terre Sacrée.”
by Jennifer Givhan
What I’m asking is will watching The Discovery / Channel with my young black boy instead / of the news coverage of the riot funerals riot arrests / riot nothing changes riots be enough to keep him / from harm?
by Sally Pla
When he came back from that first trip to India, all she could get out of him was that it was “awesome.” He was never a talker. It used to exasperate her when he was little; she’d want to shake him to get words out.
by Deborah Clearman
When lightning strikes the tulip poplar, five hundred years of leaf lifting crashes into splinter wood, and several notables roll over in their graves.