By: William Lehman The pronoun “It” reveals something subtle in the perspective shifts of Sharon Olds’ poem “When It Comes.” What this...

By: Lauren Lindroth Migration Butterlies a myriad of color, skin my muscles and tendons and bone, while pupa grub my brain at the cancer...

By: Samantha Melamed i. Amid fields of the gorgeous purple upon Iranian soil in a dry, dry heat, calloused hands under bent backs pluck...

By: Dani Putney Salamat for Intersectionality I’m not growing into a Man under indigo sky, on saffron fields. My swamp hemolymph...

By: Jonathan Andrew Pérez, Esq Prigg v. Pennsylvania: a 1842 Supreme Court case in which a man, Prigg, was convicted with kidnapping...

By: Shawn Fawson WOODBLOCK PRINTS At the city library, woodblock prints along the wall grow smaller in size. On the paper there are cold...

By: Allison Paoli What happened to you You, sturdy, wide, and Well-rooted, there So different than, and Set apart — You were strong Once...

By: Robin Axworthy The Barns of Childhood To my father They are empty carcasses, slats missing, siding lost in winter storms, inside bars...

By: Kelsey Smoot “Grad School, and other Manic Episodes” 3 a m the waking or witching hours at least four days have passed since i’ve...

By: Nishi Chawla Dis-colored Yesterday afternoon, the sun spoke to me, Slowly, lazily, cheekily, carefully checking me For aftereffects,...

By: Aaron Graham The deer in the woods is a buck. In the woods at dusk, nothing is visible. The woods are a sometimes father. At times, a...

By: Stephen Nathan Seventy I don't recall the day I became wobbly, when gravity moved in to stay with us and surprise me throughout the...

By: Josephine Blair the night we thought you’d die, i dreamed in shades of green. it could help, i thought, to paint you fresh: your...

By: Raymond Hammond we need real, bona fide aliens a confirmed, no-question-they-are-real appearance in the sky by a spaceship or an...

By: Dawn Terpstra When afternoon slides like a sigh gentle down twilight’s slope, into the silk-smooth pocket of evening, I catch a spark...

By: Tom Valovic John Fahey – 1939-2011 "The opening chords are from the last movement of Vaughan Williams' Sixth Symphony. It goes from...

By: Daniel Tsoy View from the recommended palace How slender her whisper, how quiet its vivacity. That which is pristine does not attract...

By: Osamase Ekhator Waffle House They choked me, but a week earlier, on a grizzly hush of Tennessee’s skies, I didn’t finish my grits;...

By: Alexandra Umlas The cover of Robert T. Krantz’s new chapbook, “Something to Cry About,” is a photo by the artist Jeanne Wilkinson...

By: Jason Hackett The morning fog buried the the town, even the sun could not trespass upon the thickness of its dying. Damp wood – pine,...

By: Violet Knight That’s what it was. I didn’t have the words before. I just knew I hated the clicking of pens, pages whispering like...

By: Robert Stewart You Stand and Knock The mockingbird churched up in the holly bush against the wall at my door crackles at the...

By: Alfred Fournier Upbeat band swings joy from kitchen radio. Father watches, unobserved, mother’s shadow, dancing, elegant and slim,...

By: Caitlin Piserchia Sometimes they say, “Get ready, all of us must fight!” And the woman with her child says I have to hold my child. ...