The Noon Executions, by Susan M. Gelles
They heard the shots, and the cheers, and every Saturday night they drank to celebrate the everlasting strength of the regime.
Thirteen, by Rebecca Foust
I was thirteen, and there was a boy’s mouth / where my legs met.
by Partridge Boswell
Blind to what tickles the delta of nerves there / you rub a humming with the back of your hand
by Simon Perchik
These gravestones left stranded / warped from sunrises and drift / —they need paint, tides, a hull
by Kari Gunter-Seymour
Remember that time your dog died and I didn’t tell you for months
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.
by Lori Nevole
My first girlfriend was Catholic, and thought no one would know she was a lesbian if she kept up a great manicure.
by Tommy Dean
We’re lying in the middle of a cracked country road, fireflies blinking a message we’re too human to understand.
by Betsy Porter
She would be devastated if something happened to him—a car accident, for example, it’s entirely possible.
by Jennifer Gennari
I want to be president / she says unprompted. / Her unfinished writing task / lies on the table between us.
by Karen Paul Holmes
When fifteen hours of Wagner’s Ring draws to a close, please Siegfried, don’t take the potion making you forget Brünnhilde.
by Michael Mark
My father puts the milk carton / on the kitchen table. Declares, She bought it—before.