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: Parenthood
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- By Joshua BennettThe money of the mind is attention, maybe.
Which is not, initially, where I thought I’d begin,
but we… - By Paul TranMixed greens. Purple onions. Banana
Peppers. Tomatoes. Avocados. Mayonnaise. Pepper. Sourdough.
A stranger… - By Kirsten KaschockThe sea, I mean. If you walk out into
its maw without thought, you will die.
I don’t care what kind… - By J. Mae BarizoMorning in the city and the performance
that is Madison Avenue wearing diamond
studs for breakfast, my… - 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 Blas FalconerIn Francisco Oller’s El Velorio, a child lies
on a table as if sleeping. It is covered in lace
and blossoms… - By Jordan PérezWhen the purple snap peas in the garden
couldn’t find anything to grasp onto, the shoots
ferned into… - By Ada LimónOn my way to the fertility clinic,
I pass five dead animals.
First a raccoon with all four paws… - By Triin PajaI touch your curls and the nubs
of antlers. our village is far,
still audible: the melancholy
of distant… - By Rüştü OnurBulutlar seren direklerinde,
Bulutlar yelken dolusu.
Arzular nar ağaçlarında
Arzular sepetler dolusu… - By Rüştü OnurTranslated By Hüseyin Alhas & Ulaş ÖzgünClouds are on the yardarms,
Clouds are sailful.
Desires are on pomegranate trees
Desires are basketful… - By Faisal MohyuddinNeither knows why the other is there.
My brother is not allowed to say. My father is
dead. Stop thinking… - By Christian J. CollierWe were ravaged by our loss, our child.
In the shower, slightly past midnight,
after I’d covered the … - By Christian J. CollierBetween us, there are one hundred one
umber haints in our home.
In bed, we discuss
our future, our children… - By James JoyceFrail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time's wan wave… - 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 Li-Young LeeSad is the man who is asked for a story
and can’t come up with one.
His five-year-old son waits in his lap.
Not the same story, Baba. A new one.
The man rubs his chin, scratches his ear.
In a room full of books... - By Brian SneedenMy daughter says she is the Wolf Singer.
She plants the vertebrae of her enemies
like seeds. She’s three.
I understand.
I too wear my antlers most of the time
now. It only hurts the first
hundred years. Sometimes she says:
I was here
before, I looked in...