Skip to Content
By Luis Alberto Ambroggio
Poetry might never have seen
that categorical word,
but in its charged belligerence
of emotions and in its profound determination,
By Clint Smith
There is a lake here.
A lake the size of
outstretched arms. And no,
not the type of arms raised
By Jeanann Verlee
I finish a small hot plate of grease & salt, & push the scraped-clean plate across the counter for someone else to scrub / this, I say I have paid for but it doesn't fit
By Holly Karapetkova
There never was a garden
only a leaving:
miles and miles
of footprints in the dirt.
By Veronica Golos
Have I stepped back in time, or forward?
A graveled road, hovering flags, the sound
of waves against chunk rock -- and
voices billow into birds,
By Heather Derr-Smith
The fish are opened up like salad bowls,
Slid between the metal bars of baskets,
Roasted in the wood-fired ovens, Iraqi style.
The flesh glows as if it were made of glass.
By Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello
I fell in love with a North Korean
by falling asleep on his shoulder
in a South Korean subway.
By Rasheed Copeland
from the book
of our fathers’ silence
By Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib
I think I am breaking up with memory. again. I live
by only that which will still allow me
to do the living. The flag, for example, reminds me
to either feel fear or sadness, depending on how high