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by
Melissa Adamo
She sleeps with pomegranate seeds—
bittersweet blood-red never
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by
Rosa Alice Branco. Translated by Alexis Levitin.
You pass me the bread and the coffee.
Bread is a good excuse for beginning
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by
Rhina P. Espaillat
Violante wants a sonnet, just like that.
I've been in pickles, but this? A major curse.
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by
Anne Frydman
Awakening from a nightmare, alone.
Only the cats, hearing my groan
Lift their heads
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by
Anne Frydman
In heaven we listen to our old LP's.
They will be unscratched like us in heaven.
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by
Anne Frydman
I forgot I got smaller
I listened to a song
I wrote earlier.
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by
Sean Singer
Mary, Martha, Maya, Alex.
Notice the cowrie shell cloud
Opening its blowhole among the twigs.
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by
David Slavitt
What a comfort it is, when I am sad
and it has been raining for many days in my soul,
to think that I could get away from all this,
pack my suitcase, or never mind my suitcase,
and go to the ice-cream parlors of Cochabamba.
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by
Philip Sultz
I remember the birds in the trees who sat in
the branches, the crows, the black birds, and the
grackles, and below, nearby, the Jews, also in dark
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by
Lewis Turco
I. The Big Bang
•
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by
Rimas Uzgiris
How many years did I spend not looking
at white birches (now late in winter sun)
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