Bird Poem by Alicia Salvadeo It always begins with a dumb little bird: Keats under plums, Whitman on the beach, Williams at his window eyeing trees, the sun rising a minute later than yesterday; I wake up, read mail, pay bills, raw sleep still gummed to lashes, bits I rub loose by noon: to conjure the fragile thing, to have it drown…
Jantzen Beach
— I am Tonya Harding before she invented rollerskates. When she can’t find a thing worth buying, I look for twice as long. You are not my husband. Your arms blunt their violence in performance fleece and do not swing a bat of any kind. You might be a Neon streaking doughnuts in the slush of a parking lot I’m afraid to cross. You…
Call for Submissions
Dear Readers, We hope you’re having a wonderful Fourth of July, whether it marks for you American independence, memories of having your dad hand you a match and tell you to light something and then run away from it really fast, or complete indifference. We also hope that, no matter what your attitude towards America may be, you are anything but indifferent to poetry. Here…
sonnet during drought by Alicia Salvadeo
— the Tibetan landlady and i ought to concede our brown fingers. she can’t grow tomato plants, hydrangea; i, no hope for pothos, Pittsburgh ivy, aloe; basil leaves, see-through. her son babbles all summer in alphabets; barely does it rain. i recall figs and vegetables always grew in my grandfather’s backyard; and berries sprawled toward roses, apples in my father’s own. i pass a house…
On High Street by Benjamin Sutton
— Let me draw your attention, says the gun. The sky litters stucco-snow, as we all drop. Beside me, a soon-to-be with a busted lip says, the guns in this neighborhood are getting more and more mouthy—such poor attitudes. I am thinking of buying a pet gun, and taking it for constant walks. I am thinking of settling down with a nice house…