A Patch of Blue in Tenleytown
By L. Lamar WilsonShe ambles about this Mickey-Dee kitchen’s din,
unmoved by the hot grease threatening
her ¿puedo tomar su orden? mask.
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For What I Am About to Do
By Anna B. SuttonThis morning, there is an angel hanging by a thread,
cartoonish and carved out of soft wood. She twirls
circles above me, manipulated by the pulse
of a ceiling vent.
THE INAUGURATION OF EXPERIMENTS, December 1845
By Bettina JuddLucy didn’t scream like most. Though sometimes she
would moan--deep, long and overdue. I’d wake
thinking death. It’s her, knees curled under, head face
down, her body trying to move out of itself. Anarcha
Zyklon B
By Julie EnszerThe painters call before we move into the new house. Ma’am, they say—
I am not old enough to be a ma’am, but I don’t correct them—
Ma’am, they say, we smell gas.
I dismiss their concern. I say, Keep painting.
Being Called a Faggot While Walking the Road to Clemson, South Carolina
By D. GilsonThe honeysuckle dew slick
& sweet this morning
& only an empty Wendy's cup
thrown to ditch
Hikmet: Çankiri Prison, 1938
By Joshua WeinerToday is Sunday.
Today, for the first time, they let me go out into the sun.
And I stood there I didn't move,
struck for the first time, the very first time ever:
First Morning Poem
By Allison Adelle Hedge CokeIn a room facing chimneys
over the place Nancy Morejón rests
between sleeps lining free lines
she whispers to hearing DC:
Black Site
By Jody BolzFirst, take away light.
Leave time—but make it dark,
disordered. Make it sleepless.
Not day, not night.
Dorothy Wordsworth
By Jennifer ChangThe daffodils can go fuck themselves.
I’m tired of their crowds, yellow rantings
about the spastic sun that shines and shines
and shines. How are they any different