A Boy Probably Likes Me because he was sick. His temperature a 100 degrees. The point where water became air. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t think anymore, from the cerebrospinal fluid bubbling away. From inside his head, that container of …
New Poetry
Words Better Than Amazing
The powder magazine at Fort Pulaski is a small and empty room except for us. Made from special thin red bricks made by hand. Made by slaves, the tour guide points out. My three-year-old watches while the guide tells …
Safety Measures
Rewa Zeinati is the author of the two poetry chapbooks Bullets & Orchids and Difficult. A naturalized US citizen with Lebanese and Palestinian roots, Rewa grew up in Lebanon and the UAE. Her honors include the 2020 Edward Stanley Award
…Tony Soprano Dreams of Swan Lake
If ladies were swans with long necks,
those would be the necks I’d grab them by.
I know my mother’s spent all this money
to see me on this stage, but something
about me gives me the right to ruin …
Skin & Imaginary Scenario #2
Skin
When did I begin to understand how vast the bruise on my
heart would get? So many dead—son, parents, dahlias, dogs.
Nobody knows, even her, how much grace I need. Not enough
in all the churches, the nuns’ prayers, …
Pruning Apple Trees
There’s a man named Allen who has a radish farm
in Monticello, Florida. He’s got a double wide trailer
with a wraparound front porch he made out of cedar wood
and pressure-treated pine. When it rains, you can hear
the …
ZOLOFT, 4:31 AM
~after Edgar Kunz
Two hundred and sixty seven miles southwest, my mother breathes in
ventolin in a state sponsored facility in southern Illinois. A silver cross clasped
in her soft palm. She has a Washington Redskins throw blanket
furled into …
The Museum of Unused Hours & After the Lake Broke Its Promise
The Museum of Unused Hours
In the west wing, a glass case
holds the afternoon you never answered the phone.
It smells faintly of dust and oranges.
Visitors linger there,
heads tilted,
as if waiting for something to move.
Down …
Morning Harvest
Shadows below, like those of animals.
And at the edges of the path, pricks of milkweed,
like flames of fur.
Beyond that, a single streetlight
onto the left side of her face, casting a faint gold.
Shadows
stretch to the …
Ashes at my Window
My childhood home had a single window. It sat along
a skyline of onion domes and steeples that punctured
the sky as if to force their way into heaven.
There, priests in black robes swung incense from chains,
erecting columns …
