Where will we end up? Persistent hum
of tires is our story, and eventually
the color of each signpost has its meaning.
Before we’d been outside
the islands of our shitty neighborhoods,
we weren’t angry. Only when the sun
beat down we dripped with sweat, revealed tanned chests
in the backyard, and played the radio.
How often I have played the part of this poor fish
skewered by a barbed hook it mistook
for something benign
During the Pandemic, I’ve been locked down only a little more firmly than I had been living my sequestered, solitary life before.
Genevieve Hartman reviews How the Water Holds Me by Tariq Luthun
Jose Padua reviews Nightjar by Michael Simms
As children, our cups
were never full; we learned
to build our own thrones out of sticks and
mud from underneath the bent
An eagle seeks his nest after lifting up from the land with a groundhog having already fled from its body.