Now that my pen is made of glass
I pray to write of this loud tree
and not simply fashion
From the Archives
Browse submissions from past editions, web exclusive content, author Q&A, and more.
Three Poems
Even if he was a bull angel,
a land whale, a million tumblers of blubber,
a horned prevaricator,
it took dirty tricks to get him.
Juniper
The dream collectors’ truck stopped at each house on our street. There was a system: Mondays recycling, Tuesdays dreams, Wednesdays general trash.
The Girl, the Wolf, the Crone
More than once there was a soon-to-be-old woman who had a loaf of bread, held it in her hands she did, and it was inconvenient to have a loaf of bread always sitting in her hands…
Pinnochia from Pleasure Island
Now I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.
Where did I grow up, get out—was I as rich as a golden
yolk waiting to crack in the hay?
Blue Funk
People love my city for its brasseries like hothouses, ardent and perverse, its breezes that smell of coffee and of the sea.
Little Red Riding Hood
Of this world we know very little.
In my little house I know green
stags leap over me when I sleep.
The Season of Daughters
The daughters wake for the first time on his front porch and he will never know where they come from.
The Woman Who Eats Soil
What can the unfortunate insect do
if it is found wanting in weight?
A pill-bug rolls into a bead of silent news.
Family: A Fairy Tale
The boy did not know when he ate the seeds that out from his belly button would grow a vine. He decided to show his mother who was busy with his winged sister.
