Poetry

Shiny Lures

By

She lifts two buckets from his truckbefore he can tell her what to do.The clank and weight of skimmers, rodsand spinning reels, plastic tackle boxesfull of lures that once fascinated, now

Poetry

Survival Skills for the Anthropocene

By

Lailah Dainin Shima

Listen. Even now, as ice cracks,a chickadee sings its spring song.

Speak only true names. Redwing blackbird.Orb-weaver eggs. Dragon cladonia.

When you want to clarify what you meantto say, say thank you.

Poetry

In this story, is a person on a bus or in a bus?

By

Jeanie Tomasko

Winter mornings I walk outside before the world starts up again. An occasional car, the early bus with one person on it. Sometimes the wind hasn’t even started and the heat from the chimneys of all the sleepers rises up above the houses.

Poetry

Memorial Days

By

Claire Lewandowski

This isn’t a protest, you understand.Bonfire in May with wood that’s gone dry,we’re burning the things that cannot withstand.

Poetry

It Is, It’s Not

By

Jim Landwehr

It’s still a ways away. It’s going to go away, you know. It’s still there. It is, or it isn’t. It’s in the mail. It’s in the console. It’s the perfect fit. It’s me versus you. It’s something we can all look back to. It’s forward looking.

Poetry

Home in the Borderland

By

Curt Meine

The border is never real. Imagined, invented, imposed,hardening space at the current confluence of cultures,away from the poles and centers, hinterlands holdingtheir own, identities carved out of contrast, distinct

Poetry

Sun Black

By

Bruce Dethlefsen

I tried to read his favoritepoem at my son his funhis fune read at his funeralhe’d you see died there wasa motorcycle a sunny black motorcycleand red the blood his head was

Poetry

Neptune

By

Jess Parker

Before the moon, there was Neptune.And before that, one giant sky rock took

a bite from another, spitting in anger—a wet thud went to Earth who, spinning

Poetry

A Couple Months After My Father’s Death, I Read About Songbirds Mysteriously Dying in Pennsylvania

By

Alecia Beymer

What does this life requireof me. A constellationof sharp caution empties: emberscrackle in a nearby firepit. Texturedbranches seduce the night, considerthis was all you ever thought

Poetry

Of Genesis

By

Nicholas Gulig

The origin of every book is loss.There is not a word

in the beginningand language always listens

to its end. Tell mewhat has left its mark

upon the names you give to starsyou cannot see

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Poetry