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  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    there’s a girl playing Sweet and Sour with the maternity ward discharges in the back lot of the hospital. some smile back at her bared teeth and cradle squirming hot bodies, but some only look, asleep with eyes open, wristbands and empty hands. she sucks on the end of her gunpowder ...
  • Nonfiction > Memoir
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    There is a history of bullets in my family. Bullets for different reasons, thousands of miles apart from one another. Some passed from hand to hand in silence. Some were fired from clandestine weapons that were not quite quiet enough. Floating on different oceans, one warm and glistening, the other ...
  • Hot Topics > Health
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    I am one in five million. One in five million children born to mothers who were told that the probability of conception was five percent, or ten percent, or twenty percent, or any other number too small to have hope nestled within it. A number too small to accept without a second opinion. ...
  • Fiction > All Fiction
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    My last memory of Charlotte was the sound of flashing neon lights and the taste of snow that had arrived too early. In my memory, Charlotte was floating above the ground as we drifted along empty residential streets. Her eyes were shining purple, a sunset suspended. She flashed her teeth and they dr...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    Eleanor wrote the last lines of her description of “alluring Russian woman,” and slid it into an envelope with an invoice for $100, the price of a detailed description. Katrina, the “alluring Russian woman” had taken her about an hour to write, what with the precision needed to capture the s...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I am machine. This iamb machine that cannot be seen scrubs my blistered tongue clean. Of grey flesh am I, warmed by one solemn lie. I’ll shut off my mind, then I won’t hear my cries. With a mercury draught I will swallow my thoughts, bid them not be unlocked. I know what I am not. ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    O, city whose arches and whorls can be found on my own fingertips, You are more beautiful at night. Guttural moans rise with hot air and the smell of metal through pores of stark concrete. In the rain, these streets are rags, gray and glistening. Even now, there is no quiet. Lilting tempo an...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I am not roast beef, because I am not tender, and also because you do not love me. Nor do you say that you would want to have me all the time. This is why I wonder if I’m meat at all....
  • Poetry > Haiku
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    To be a poet and have no great cause but words, is not free of guilt....
  • Poetry > Haiku
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    The moment between when you jump and when you fall is a fleeting gift....
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    My mother is wearing a hat indoors, to shade her eyes from dim lighting in the garage or the flash – her brother's camera cheek and nose are lost in shadow. My uncle is wearing a hat beside her, because she is wearing one, and older. He is surprised by the camera, head tilted down, gl...
  • Poetry > All Poetry
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    There is a house tucked away in a shrinking wood My last footprints there are three sizes too small I would go back there, if I could It was snow and wind, I drew up my hood But the dinners were warm, carpets cushioned my falls There is still that house tucked in a shrinking wood Christmas...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I lean toward your face searching for a kiss tucked in the eyelid over each iris, wide in its expanse as a pond on an evening for canoeing. There is a salty taste to take from your eyelashes, cattails that line the water and splay sweetly outward. They shiver. A sudden change of wind. ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I am waiting for my train on a December evening. The light at the end of the platform glows red. The air smells of urine, and old copper pennies, not zinc. My jacket is belted about my waist. I am shoulders and hips, all in black. A train coasts into the station, headed uptown. It is ac...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I need an infinite collection of vessels to contain the continuous magnitude of the night. The moon is a single dimension: lone point, empty sky....
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    Plow furrows in the dunes and sew rows of white crosses. One cross for each flag buried wrapped around a box of pine – a blanket not warm enough for any lump of life. One more son gone, one cross more for fault lines to bear. Pace the rows and remember single gloves, incomplete things. ...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    In the drawer where I keep things hidden, there is a ball made of scraps. These are pieces of you. They are gray, tattered, faded beyond recognition. They rarely see the light of day. I wonder about them all the time. They don’t remind me of you but of someone else, instead. If I watched you ...
  • Poetry > Sonnet
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    She stands beneath the neons Bare skin wretched in the heatless light The oldest of labors; eons Of trampled souls, too wounded to fight Back against the grabbing hands of freaks Until self-deprecation is her cradle And every word she speaks Is not a mirror. She is unable To embrace a re...
  • Nonfiction > Personal Experience
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    I found God last spring, on a day when the sky looked like grey porridge, riddled with clumps of curdled milk. Thousands of miles from home, I was transported to a state of mind that I have not found since. The small humor of two churches at either end of a street called Hope dissipated as I gazed u...

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