By Kate Partridge
The dentist is now the same
age as me, which is troubling,
mostly because of what I
have and have not done…
age as me, which is troubling,
mostly because of what I
have and have not done…
Explore Poems: Home Life
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- 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 Lauren RussellHammock dumping
you onto bruised
grasses, frayed
thoughts droop
sideways, hammering
morning. Slipper-
footed… - 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 … - By Richard SikenDriving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make
the new streets… - By Jean ValentineThe hornet holds on to the curtain, winter
sleep. Rubs her legs. Climbs the curtain.
Behind her the cedars sleep lightly,
like guests. But I am the guest.
The ghost cars climb the ghost highway. Even my hand
over the page adds to the ‘room... - By Julien StrongEventually my stepfather grew tired
of his exile in the basement
and left. She wept and begged him
not to go but he packed his Hummingbird
guitar and soldering irons and moved in
with a woman he’d met at the corner store.
And my mother took...