—For Feiga Maler, 1919-1942, who died in the Kraków Ghetto
It is just before the war cracks the land open like an egg.
Her mother’s voice—rooted in the naked grief …
Since 1968
46, Poetry by Yerra Sugarman
—For Feiga Maler, 1919-1942, who died in the Kraków Ghetto
It is just before the war cracks the land open like an egg.
Her mother’s voice—rooted in the naked grief …
46, Poetry by Cammy Thomas
for summer blue and white seersucker
my sister froze when she saw me in it
I took it when he died and I’ve washed it
because of how he liked to beat us
a thousand times it’s ankle-length …
46, Poetry by Douglas Manuel
for Michael Donald and his family
Released and returned, the hostages invaded
each and every news segment. The new president,
a former actor (Damon told her. Denise had never
heard of The Killers or Law and Order.) …
46, Poetry by Gabriel Fried
I’m going off again with older boys
who slouch in memorable shoes and coats
into the thickening forest or cars,
depending on their age, their chosen toy.
It never changes. Like a paper boat
gone floating off again with older …
46, Poetry by Levi Rubeck
Where did I pick up a raw
right hand wrung more by New
England dew points than the brittle
prairie I abandoned it was pitted
with the graves of these same
small follicles they burrow deep
so I can’t pinch …
46, Poetry by David Kirby
Agent Bobby Chacon of the FBI Dive Team looks into the hole
his team has cut in the ice of Matanuska Lake, outside Anchorage,
and the first thing he sees is the face of eighteeen-year-old
Samantha Koenig, her eyes wide …
45, Poetry by Danley Romero
Turtle head, poke out of shell
and water, barely send out
ripples. Arms outstretched, slowly
tread water, breathe in
a deep, turtle breath,
wade shallow
near, and on, and over
the surface; you are everywhere.
Acorn in the years-ago ground,
45, Poetry by Zach Linge
Brent isn’t at the Yellow House, is unreachable by phone, hasn’t seen Vicky, who went to Iceland, for days, talked to Bear, who never liked him like that because he sleeps exclusively with Georgia, who also hasn’t heard from Brent …
45, Poetry by Steven Cordova
45, Poetry by Ava Dadvand
To walk down the street is a test of my womanhood.
Onlookers keep on looking.
I am beleaguered with looks of assessment.
I am the vanishing point that engulfs the eyes of the cityscape,
A positive magnet to the negative …