By Khari Dawson
mom tells me I smell like
her Mom—
something flowery and
the blackened endings
of a joint.
I feared her …
her Mom—
something flowery and
the blackened endings
of a joint.
I feared her …
Explore Poems: Living
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- By Trina DasThe first time you get sick and your mom
isn’t there to
force-feed you chicken soup and massage
warm… - By Lesley YoungeThe first time
I tell someone I’ve thought about
ending it
is right after the first time
someone tells me… - By Tamsin MooreLong, empty roads stretching as long as the gas tank is willing—
Sixty-seven dollars left from last … - By Max FischerTaking off my clothes
feels like peeling off parts of
myself as if I’m a butterfly
with its wings sheared… - By Kaylee ChengDo not tell her that Grandma is watching her from
above. She is not religious. (And nervous about the… - By Miguel A. VegaIf, even now, I am excited about it: every cow & horse,
every canoe on the surface of Pyramid Lake—… - By T.S. LeonardDon’t. The past is overcrowded with the future
closer than you think. You blink, that’s one
eon; a yawn… - By Rasaq Malik Gbolahanuntil the clock of my grandmother’s body
stopped working & her remains
were lowered into the earth on… - By Shubhi SahniDownload the descriptive transcript
You’ll wake up in the middle of the night with
shooting pain
Your … - By Shira HausI prayed for my friend to live and he didn’t. I held his puffy hand, his heart jumping green on the…
- By Maggie QueeneyThe look I am hunting: the one
that through color and cut glares the starer into a skull or a skein
of… - By Maggie QueeneyA corruption of grammar—what knowledge
I have come by comes through the eyes To my hands—lightning runs… - By Li-Young LeeAnother word for father is worry.
Worry boils the water
for tea in the middle of the night.
Worry trimmed… - By Li-Young LeeI can hear in your voice
you were born in one country
and will die in another, and where you live is where… - By C. S. GiscombeI was a woman in a prison camp, my job
was to work in the yard. I walked away,
drifted north, like I do, and came to Canada; but by then I was
a man dressed in a long soviet coat, wool with... - By Sasha DugdaleThe downs are certainly lovely, although by mortal loveliness
did you mean they would disappear one day… - 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 Imtiaz DharkerAt last I’m taking off this coat,
this black coat of a country
that I swore for years was mine,
that I wore more out of habit
than design.
Born... - By Martha SilanoBecause why not? Why not take the smashed pinecone
of my life, render it in purple? Why not dream of…