Who is There Who is There
You Inform Our Regret
I Am In Your Field
Evan Williams is a Chicago-based poet interested in the collision of Surrealism, masculinity, and the natural world. Their work appears in DIAGRAM, Pleiades,
Since 1968
51, Poetry by Evan Williams
51, Poetry by Heather Gluck
But the king grew increasingly erratic
swaddled in blankets, demanding that iron rods
be sewn into his clothing, so that when his glass
body bumped a wall, it would not shatter. He held
still for hours, and would not let …
Not quite a morsel or a nugget,
not a hint or a nibble or slice or shred,
not a scrap or a snack or a grain or a crumb,
not even a hunk or a chunk or a taste or …
I’ve watched someone who needed air
pitch a loose fist through her own window.
It was the second time I watched her die.
My mouth is a window open.
I hang heavy toile curtains—a scene
of a …
50, Poetry by Leila Seyedzadeh
The sky is not blue in all places
There are mountains, there are trees
There are no mountains, there are trees
Yet the sky here is higher
The shadows follow me
The outlines around the objects
My imagination of the …
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 …
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 …
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 …
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, …
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, …