Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By Amir McClamWhen my need for care moves from six
weeks to eternity, who can keep up?
Unknotting my hamstrings, beloved soothes
“you refuse to be rushed,” says it's something
they admire. If only they knew: when given a choice
need or fear— sometimes I’m wrong.
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By Arianna Monetand I keep mistaking the screen for a
mirror. By which I mean, I too was once
adolescent and unconquerable:
purple hair; a body unmarked by pain.
Then, the bright unholiness of onset.
By MT VallartaWe braid her hair, every strand a thread
of flesh. We caress her from mouth
to root, feeling every tale—every tree,
every cliff—nestled in her folds.
By Ina Cariñowhen I turn seventy & you are gone,
will my muscles still heft with ease
a crate of summer figs---one
bruised fig for every year of my life---
from the tree in your backyard?
By Tala KhanmalekOn a table in the corner of Lollipop Shoppe, I face the crowd and dance. I look toward a circle of new friends by the bar. Most of us just met six days ago yet we share, I think, the sole familiar between strangers: brutality. I listen with my hands. Arms overhead, conjuring.
By ChrysanthemumI hate the question: What would you say to your younger self? Too inexact. With what means? Through which technologies? Landline? Lie detector? Telepathy? Is it automatic? Call dispatch? Concierge? What’s the cost?
By Zuggie TateWhen the sun greets well-slept eyelids
when the nail doesn’t break
when the voice doesn’t crack,
when the bus grandmother says hello sweetness
when she pulls a honeycomb smile from this hive of a mouth
when the door is held
when her favorite flowers bloom
By Ezra FoxThey say I killed you,
say they can pry o pen
my / your
dead / name
like a mussel finds nothing
but the ocean's black silt.
By Jimena LuceroI go out in public &
cis people tell me I risk my visible self too much.
But I think I’m just co-existing.
Earth practices liberation.
This is how I’ve led my body.
Naturally, I am bold!
By Cai SherleyBlake Brockington committed suicide in 2015 & last week the New Yorker’s crossword puzzle said “part of some transitions, colloquially” & i thought of bridges. i told my mother i would read the bible this year & she mailed me her mother’s copy with a note – please read with/for love & slipped a green flag into Book of Ezra & Psalm 23, where god lays me down in a green pasture & restores my soul. the answer was “HRT”, each line an arrow pressed into my soft throat.