Poetry

In Which Woolly Mammoths Save the World, Starting with Siberia, Because Permafrost is Melt and Carbon is Release

By

First, find the reliquary:Collect the bones of the mammoth,regurgitated onto the shoreby the agitate cycle of thawing permafrost,rinse clean by the frigid lake’s lapping,swelled in a jumble of reeds

Poetry

He Screams

By

Jackie Langetieg

A man on a bicycle.Does he strain into his vocal cordsbecause he is angry, wonderwhy he is riding on this trackgoing around in circlesas his life seems to veer offin jagged directions, no winding

Poetry

First cited in the sixteenth century (specifically in a book called Dice-Play), the expression [brown study]—which describes a state of intense, sometimes melancholy reverie, really seems to have hit i

Poetry

I Want to Speak of Want

By

Elisabeth Harrahy

of the need for lyricwhispers and fingertipsbehind my earlike a distant melody

of dappled water that flowswhere tulips opentheir soft petals spreadinglike a morning yawn

Poetry

At the Birth of a Third Daughter, on the Eve of World War,

By

Ingrid Andersson

At the birth of a third daughter, on the eve of world war,my grandfather refused to look at heror come in from the barn.In that old country, deepwithin my newborn mother,in my invisible ovary home,

Poetry

Liquirizia*

By

Dominic Holt

Tell me Grandfatherdid you ever try to scrub outyour dark Mediterranean skin your Camelsoriginal Napolitano tongue

Poetry

Sister

By

Kathryn Gahl

My sister doesn’t do sad.She tried it on a few times, different styles, different sizes— nothing quite fit. Either too loudor too dark, too tight or too baggy, she’d say.

Poetry

1967

By

Susan Martell Huebner

It was that summer19 years old I lived alonefevered with independenceefficiency apartment on Summit Avenuescratch cushions pull-out couchGoodwill dishes my boyfriend and I

Poetry

The Agility of Chopsticks

By

Karen Loeb

By age three everything’s in place.There’s a closet for storing languagewith all the nouns and verbs on hooks and hangersknowing their places, who comes first

Poetry

Gaia’s Song

By

Thomas Davis

I rummaged around in words all day,changing this one, discarding that one,snipping, pruning, and adding, a gardenerworking in a field of meaning flowers.

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Poetry