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Poetry

Poetry

Happysad

Gobbling tortilla chips with gleeful abandon, I forget to chew, and one triangle catches in my throat. Instantaneous panic. Sudden, deep, mammalian fear.

By Leath Tonino April 2024
Poetry

Dear Woman Who Tried to Pick Me Up at a Hollywood Club in 1998

What if I’d said yes? Imagine I go home with you that night, / when I’m twenty, and when we wake up in the morning, / you ask, You know you snore? You laugh at my / nighttime retainer, which I’ll wear for the rest of my life, and say, You look hot.

By Chrys Tobey April 2024
Poetry

In the Freezer

she kept pig haunches, / the shoulder joints of cows, / buffalo neck and guts, / all stuck to the ziplock bags. / If anyone ever asked, / Mother simply laughed.

By Jodie Hollander April 2024
Poetry

Pink Suede Boots

Decades old now, / but the leather’s held up, and the curve / of the instep is still elegant. / I gave them away to my goddaughter, sixteen / and blossoming.

By Alison Luterman March 2024
Poetry

When I Come to Get My Things

I am amazed at how much of my shit I left / with her, and to see it piled in her hallway / clears space in me for what? // I wander my new emptiness / as the small bag of her things I’ve brought / weighs down my hand

By Matthew Siegel March 2024
Poetry

King Rail Reserve

Wind-plowed furrows in ice across the marsh. / Cattails frozen suppliant. Loosestrife withered // colorless under a bright but ineffective sun.

By Glenn Stowell March 2024
Poetry

Noah’s Wife

Noah, his swelled head, his ego larger than the ark, his crazy / self-promoting savior mania. Because of him we dropped / everything, sank our fortune in cypress wood, and every / filthy creature we couldn’t trap we had to buy with our last coin.

By Wendy Drexler February 2024
Poetry

Mountain Flowers

When I was sixteen, / pickup truck, load of hay, / there was nothing I’d rather see / from the window than women’s underwear / hanging on a backyard clothesline.

By Robert Cooke February 2024
Poetry

What If Pain No Longer Ordered the Narrative

She’ll replace me with another beloved one day, as children do, and if I don’t let her, I’ll have failed, a different failure than those nights she brings me books to read when I’m too tired.

By Erin Hoover January 2024
Poetry

Spring Garden Street

I had left her sitting on the front stoop / and crossed the street / to light my cigarette—April / in the early evening, / the pear trees with their arms full / of white blossoms, comfortless as ghosts.

By Grady Chambers January 2024
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