-
by
Meredith Bergmann
They nest among the crockets of the gate
as quietly as gargoyles in a drought.
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-
by
Dina Bellrham. Translated by
Fernando Iturburu
and
Alexis Levitin.
of trees
abandoned nests
birds migrating south
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-
by
Dina Bellrham. Translated by
Fernando Iturburu
and
Alexis Levitin.
i’d like you to feel
the pain of the branches,
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-
by
Shaune Bornholdt
This meadow’s gone to seed. Denuded stalks
Lean windward, cupping umbrelled ovaries,
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-
by
Shaune Bornholdt
"That's mine," my father says. (I'm five. I'm six feet closer to ninety-five feet high.)
"I made that ceiling." I'm gripping his fedora. How did he get up there? Fly?
My brother, country kid in city slouch, is cool. Asks about the scaffolding. Anyone die?
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-
by
Darcy Cummings
She’s a death angel,
our tardy visitor,
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-
by
Siomara España. Translated by
Alexis Levitin.
I am Lolita.
Even if the steppenwolves
undo my braids
with their teeth,
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-
by
Siomara España. Translated by
Alexis Levitin.
That’s why
when you appeared, supplicant,
telling me your fears,
I let you touch me,
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-
by
Siomara España. Translated by
Alexis Levitin.
I say good-bye to your body,
to your eyes, to your hands,
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-
by
Tom Hansen
At six I sit at the west window,
Watching the first faint traces of sun
Baptize the tops of tall pines.
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-
by
Tom Hansen
Last batter up,
He approached the plate
And shivered: the night had grown strange.
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-
by
Julie Kane
Don’t place your picnic table
under a pecan tree,” goes the old
Cajun saying. Must be an Anglo
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-
by
Julie Kane
She had warned us not to
pick them in the woods
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-
by
Michele Leavitt
I’m old and wrinkled, celibate and wise,
devoted to the passions of the mind,
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-
by
Michele Leavitt
“Rape of Proserpine,” the colossus’s sign reads,
“Stone Variant,” on the theme young girl some
God of Hell abducted became a queen.
Her
Rape is looming, yet
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-
by
Burton Raffel
This was a tree we bought in Denver,
a two-foot plant stuck in a plastic pail.
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-
by
Burton Raffel
Elephants roost all over our house,
Buddhas stare but never see
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-
by
David Slavitt
Pasternak told him:
It is not literature, it is not poetry. It is suicide.
Osip Emilievich nevertheless continued to recite his poem
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-
by
David Slavitt
My father’s uncle, I think, or maybe an elder
cousin was an inventor, at least of a method
of asking for money tactfully. The devices
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-
by
James Matthew Wilson
Where flecks of fabric tangle with your hairs,
Trimmed nails, the dry husks of dead beetles, bottle
Caps flipped into a corner off our beers,
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