The human body weighs / less in the moments / after death. / Or so says the scientist / seeking proof of the soul.
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Two poems by Kristin Emanuel
A woman across the street watched her canaries / phase through their cage like melted candlewax.
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1996 by Marian Kilcoyne
En route from New York to Albany / a majestic stag pranced along the wire / fence.
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Two Poems by Mark Irwin
We were Americans, black, white. We were Asians, Slovak,
Italian, and Poles, all of mixed descent, all at this school
of advanced learning, learning different and new ways to kill,
asking always the same question. How far is the enemy?
Two Poems by Alan Chazaro
Today I learned how to jungle walk while chucking clouds
from cliff sides & ruins aren't really ruined
Sun Orange, a Poem by Lauren Hilger
In California, we sat around a fire and I broke the code.
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Two Poems by Charlie Oak
A flight attendant handed me a tiny bottle of Vodka
and a note, like an antiseptic to the wounds
stowed under the seat in front of me.
Two Poems by Lisa Ludden
Under the pressure of my hands you’d kick.
I’d guess your features, drawing your likeness to mine.
Mostly we were silent, finding our way with each other.
I didn’t have the words, yet.
Transgender Heroic: All This Ridiculous Flesh by Kayleb Rae Candrilli
I could say I am simple—my heart
again a newborn with a shelf life.
But there is nothing simple about
my body and its fruity orbit around
the sun.
Two Poems by Romana Iorga
No one wants to touch the skin
of this poem, its unhatched
enigma. The words sit in rows
like alien pods, oozing deceit.
Argo Navis by Elizabeth Breese
Why call for a group of stars in the shape
of a boat sailing backwards to be broken
up into three parts of a boat sailing
backwards?
WE ARE SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOST by Michelle Peñaloza
We sort the cards at the kitchen table.
Instead of flowers, our people help
the family pay for the funeral.
Telway Lament by Andrew Collard
And then one morning, just before the sunlight turns to bees
at my bedroom window, I will see it, through fog—
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Three Poems by Alessandra Narváez-Varela
When I sit on the toilet, my thighs,/ purple and mold-green, file against / each other, mercilessly. My neck hairs / rise, dandelion-like, aware of her thighs
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Malus by Geoff Anderson
I find the last crabapple—rotted, not fallen
from the branch but buried up in the leaves.
What has stopped the cankered globe from falling?
immigrant treatise by Bernard Ferguson
the sun is retreating from yet another day that wishes to lay claim
over our bodies & my friends have taken to the streets in my name.
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Two Poems by Robert Krut
And as the curtain above turns
to black with the absence of time,
we lie here, backs on grass,
dew climbing up and over our thighs.
Two Poems by Jessica Guzman Alderman
Like all beasts wandering on the edges of cities, I turn my head
toward the highway. The sun sets across six lanes of idling engines.
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Tiny Worlds by Molly Gutman
When the Devil comes for Christmas he brings
a casserole. He wears an argyle crewneck,
too expensive, pilling, starting to smoke.
In the Grove of Self-Charging Trees by Jessica Jacobs
It is early enough that fog still skeins, / like moss, the highest branches. / And twining each tree: a cable / rough-creped as wild grape vine, / with both ends socketed / into the trunk.
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