By Aaron Shurin
The gates, the gardens, the windows, the sky, the ledge of bricks, the fallen leaves, the porch where…
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- By Lauren RussellHammock dumping
you onto bruised
grasses, frayed
thoughts droop
sideways, hammering
morning. Slipper-
footed… - By Kate PartridgeThe dentist is now the same
age as me, which is troubling,
mostly because of what I
have and have not done… - By Joshua BennettFor the sake of argument, let’s say
the day my father outlawed all contact
between backhand and face, … - By Stefania GomezIn the sunless hour before day I hear the man I want
to love just how I’d want him. He’ll never let a… - By Shara McCallumPain enters through an open window
and you say it is the wind.
It marrows into beams, gutters
walls. Still… - By Yi LiI love cherries.
The fruit, juice, jam,
blossoms, prints on a summer
dress, in a black forest cake… - By Chaelee DaltonConsider the market. Consider the gross domestic product of Korea. Call it Kimchi.
Ferment culture in… - By Sarah CarsonThe first gun we knew came in a toolbox for the apocalypse: hammer, barrel, crushed can, pack of Newports…
- By Anastasia Taylor-Lindv.
Isn’t it dangerous to be a woman? Surrounded by men, questions
about risk-taking, parenting (I’m childless… - By Li-Young LeeAnother word for father is worry.
Worry boils the water
for tea in the middle of the night.
Worry trimmed… - By Sharon OldsBut I love the I, steel I-beam
that my father sold. They poured the pig iron
into the mold, and it fed out slowly,
a bending jelly in the bath, and it hardened,
Bessemer, blister, crucible, alloy, and he
marketed it, and bought bourbon, and... - By Karl KnightsIt’s Boxing Day and I’m nearly ten and a half.
I got the camouflaged Action Man for Christmas.
I told … - By Petr HruškaTranslated By Jonathan BoltonTrue darkness is in a child’s bedroom. Deep black.
Elsewhere there’s just a meager, watery twilight… - By Petr HruškaTranslated By Jonathan BoltonTwo days of rain. Children on the floor. Scant trees.
The furniture confesses to the boards. Reaching… - By Angela Jackson1. Yellow paint on brush.
Black body leaning in wind.
Mustached man. Father.
2. House yellow… - By Xiao Yue ShanI could tell you this: marigolds are a night flower.
in the hour of my birth there were men in the streets… - By Maya MarshallThe myth is Grandaddy’s mother
birthed twelve children
by twelve discrete men. I asked what she did for… - By Bertrand N. O. WalkerHush thee and sleep, little one,
The feathers on thy board sway to and fro;
The shadows reach far downward… - By Suzanne S. RancourtI can remember my father bringing home spruce gum.
He worked in the woods and filled his pockets
with …