Category: Poetry

Issue 20 | Fall 2018

Foraging

By | Poetry

Bees sustain // the hive by taking flight and swarm that way too: / a lone messenger, tremor, and soon the queen / is gone. Some will follow.

Issue 20 | Fall 2018

Wingtips

By | Poetry

In the back of the closet where I keep the things I’ve given up: the smoking jacket, the cardigan, the bolo tie with its black string and its silver and turquoise clasp, the cowboy boots I bought at the spur of the moment, among those costumes and props of another life, there where I’d hidden …

Issue 20 | Fall 2018

Baby Steps in Doomsday Prepping

By | Poetry

I have a shovel, blueprints, and a big enough backyard. I still don’t own a pistol.

Issue 7 | Summer 2010

Nuclear

By | Poetry

The dark, steel drums of waste sinking beneath the mountain. The hot circuitry moaning through the grid, alive, but forced to move. These things wash over me. A crowd draws in, closer to the vast desert, collapse like sinkholes, into fathoms of what I want, what you want, what we think we need. Tell me …

Issue 7 | Summer 2010

Offshore

By | Poetry

I wanted a ring with a carved Indian face, or a horse hair instrument that droned, but the Gulf was beaten with oil in its gills and feathers, a desperate mix, viscous and black. Give me the horse skull, keep the credit card. Give me a great blue adventure, I’ll just stand and stare. The …

Issue 7 | Summer 2010

Sacred Love

By | Poetry

The trees practice it all winter—the honey locusts, with their spiritual thorns, their dry pods of sweetness, the death pale birches like bony priestesses and the deflowered flower girl plums, naked and wind-thrashed, in bruise colors. But, what ascetic hermit can resist disporting when April unbosoms! one of Vermeer’s women, dressed up in such lush …

Issue 7 | Summer 2010

Sewing Box

By | Poetry

Half-hidden, her thimble, little dimpled well. What residue of her salt does it contain? (The chary bird in me loves to sip from it.) Measuring tape, scissors… Enough equipment here for the tedious Fates. Yes, here is her favorite pincushion, the sharps and darners stuck in it like small, heroic swords.

Issue 7 | Summer 2010

Imagining Emily Dickinson in 1852

By | Poetry

She’s thinking of song— dividing the day into eight juicy bits, into sixty little books of six folded sheets, “always in ink,” the worm of oblivion tucked neatly into one gnawed corner— polishing some lapidary idea of a frayed eternity. Her hair is red feathers—a robin’s breast (wary little bird binding us to her paint.) …