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Poetry

Home in the Borderland

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry

Rogue Corn

Nikki Wallschlaeger

My fav event as harvest season approachesis the rough seed that escaped the plots.

If there’s a cornfield adjacent to another bedof vegetables, you can count on imperfection,

Poetry

The Coyote Killers

Nikki Wallschlaeger

Howl somethingyou want heard,

guaranteedyou’ll be hunted.

Howl somethingsweet and it won’tmatter either.

Someone will starta murder club builtfor your friends,

Poetry

German Hatchback

Pete Koz

In the sediment, years of beaten red granite, submissive to currentThe broken headlight lies.(The old woman, down off Highway 164, could tell youIt comes from a 20th-centuryGerman hatchback.

Poetry

Salvation Hill

Pete Koz

I never knew why you waxed gravestones.I remember you young with pigtails.

Then it started raining in the middle of AugustAnd everything that could scream was steaming.The wax melts, and looks like tears.

Poetry

Last Hay

John Freiburger

We worked in the meadowwhere all daythe haybine and rakeswove patterns in the greenquilted rows and stitched texturesof mown hay, now windrowed, drying