By Yasmine Ameli
Sa’id goes missing. Forty years later, my mama tells me his poems got into the wrong hands. It is the...
Explore Poems: Prose Poem
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- By Yasmine AmeliIn another story, my baba bozorg paints flowers. He is little. His name Amir means shah, but the shah...
- By Yasmine AmeliNanny’s husband is dead, and her six children are growing. Every morning, she readjusts her one fake...
- By Jorie GrahamThe blades like irises turning very fast to see you completely—steel-blue then red where the cut occurs...
- By Cameron Awkward-RichI wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds & the thrill of rain breaks my heart. I go outside...
- By Ada LimónI pass the feeder and yell, Grackle party! And then an hour later I yell, Mourning dove afterparty! (I call the feeder the...
- By Tilsa OttaTo voice something that doesn’t end in a smile is odd. The spirit circles the body, doctors can’t see...
- By Tilsa OttaPronunciar algo que no termine en una sonrisa es extraño. El alma circula por el cuerpo,los doctores...
- He was jailed for cruelty to insects, and his agent wasn’t answering the phone, so he stayed awake in...
- By Josh Bell“You can’t kiss a movie,” Jean-Luc Godard said, and this is mostly true, in that you cannot initiate...
- By Marosa di GiorgioMama said “wedding crowns,” and I looked at the tight bouquets, dark white, forbidding, portraits of...
- By Marosa di GiorgioMamá decía “coronas de novia,” y yo miraba los racimos apretados, de un blanco oscuro, adusto, retratos...
- By Marosa di GiorgioThe bats arrived, attached to the coats of calves, gazelles; when I could, I plucked one off. And others...
- By Marosa di GiorgioCuando tenía seis años, ocho años, la abuela dictaminó vestido de liebre, que me librase de todo mal...
- By Marosa di GiorgioWhen I was six years old, eight years old, my grandmother decreed a garment of hare, which would ward...
- By Marosa di GiorgioPasaban murciélagos, prendidos a la ropa de las vacas, las gacelas; cuando pude quité alguno. Y otros...
- By Diana Marie DelgadoI turn on the radio and hear voices, girls becoming women after tragedy. Talk about dreams! His heart...
- By Rickey LaurentiisBecause I should’ve wrote this years ago, I’m crying. So what my slow failure pass the years Make me...
- By Ada LimónI used to pretend to believe in God. Mainly, I liked so much to talk to someone in the dark. Think of...
- By Patricia LockwoodHow many sets of her parents are dead. How many times over is she an orphan. A plane, a crosswalk, a...