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Poetry

Resentful and Ready

49, Poetry by Adele Williams

I find myself with a bit in my mouth from time
to time. That means that I am bearing all the weight.

That means that I am bridled and tamed. I am
certainly carrying a man— I may or …

After an Argument with my Mother

49, Poetry by Lilith Acadia

A horse
Leans into the coyote’s attack,
Presses against teeth,
Submits to claws, to
Defer the pain
of Torn flesh, of
Severance.
 
You, a horse,
Leave your last happiness,
Fly across the Atlantic to the father who
Pounded worthlessness …

the children

49, Poetry by Mercedes Lawry

wide hemisphere of roiling and din
flung mud as a tank rolls by
soon blood will river the road
the emptying of soul in order to
kill, obey orders, kill
who we are in the shadows
across the border, arms …

I try to track my thoughts, but there’s only sensation

49, Poetry by Rachel Rabbit White

at a Love’s travel stop, through the portal of Love’s travel

a day’s idle moving, nothing crystallized,
mildly frictionless, and further only feeling
we’ve been at this stop before…

overlapping patterns ripple at edges
merge into that which bonds us, …

Bitter

49, Poetry by Caroline Laganas

Even after twenty years on North Chelton Road,
I never ate a plum from the tree my dad planted
in our backyard because the deer always beat me

before I could know what came from the blossoms
they nibbled on, …

History

49, Poetry by Theodora Ziolkowski

More than her doped mouth,
it is her unfocused gaze
that convinces the researcher
that his assistant isn’t
listening. How is he to instruct
her properly?
   
    The researcher is stroking his beard
& the assistant is
…

Minor League

49, Poetry by Christopher Shipman

He’s gorgeous, his brother—looks like Jared Leto.

In front of us the Grasshoppers
making quick work of the Ashville Tourists.
A row behind, Kathy’s friend Shannon—
hotdog in hand, oversized beer between the knees—
hungry for more about my brother.…

Fell & Spectacle

49, Poetry by V. Batyko

FELL

In August, the summer grew hips. We dipped
our tongues into scoops of ice cream round as
the moon. You dug up a dead tree in the garden
to make room for new growth. The deeper you dug,
the …

Headcase!

49, Poetry by Sarah Cavar

by which I mean, suitcase, by which I mean
my father, who is like a pancake
or a sugarless plane ticket:
Flat, such that the boarding
of him’s near-natural, all neutral,
shirt falling unheeded from neck to nip to
slender …

The Changeling & The Two Thumbelinas

48, Poetry by Brandi George

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Call for Submissions

Call for submissions for issue #51, as well as our poetry and micro essay contests. Learn more and submit your work here.

New Orleans Review is delighted to announce the publication of its first book, Interviews from the Edge: 50 Years of Conversations about Writing and Resistance
(Bloomsbury 2019).

Visit the Digital Archive of NOR Print Issues, 1968-2019

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