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The Trophy

Siamak Vossoughi

I'd never felt so sad engraving a trophy before, like I wanted to throw it away when I was done with it.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

The World Turned

Alex Lemon

Slower & slower & then, for one/ Whole month, it spun so fast/ It was impossible to be jealous/ Or afraid or lost. Pants flew/ Off of strangers. Lapdogs floated/ Away, zigzagging across/ The sky like balloons.

Extasis en La Frontera

David Antonio Reyes

Forget the finger-flipping road rage, smile for the tiny waving palm. Bobble-hand Pope Francis figurines for your dashboards are available at the Madonna Shop. We got the rosaries, t-shirts, decals, key chains, all the official items. I got six rosaries.

Oh, How Vital They Are to This World

Jeanne Kocher

And there they are, two little boys, Jacob with his face scrunched in agony, and tears and a nub of his finger on the floor near the closet...

The Evangelist

Samuel Kolawole

He never finished a performance without making a prediction. His predictions, if right, would immediately boost his prestige and reverence so much so that when he passed his offering bowl around afterwards people would be more than willing to part with their hard-earned cash.

From the Archives

Three Found Poems: Virginia Woolf's The Waves

Nazifa Islam

I see the moon—flickering, broken leaning against the sky—and am afraid.

[SPRING: MOSAIC::]

J.P. Grasser

Touch them, the tesserae, the shards of floating glass, which skim the rain-full gutter. Not dead: us/them—mere stutters, gluttons for new skin. Life, peel back your veil. Now, see? See it again: To be dead another time is a deciduous explosion.

Lobster Dinner

Alexandra Kleeman

The lobsters were dead in a pile and with a froth on their shells they waited and watched us undress each other...

My Mother's Face

Claire Scott

my mother leaning in listening / her usual face her yesterday’s face / out cold on the couch

From the Blog

Travels with Steve, and Good Writing

My old friend and former teacher Steve Orlen and I walked many miles together along the wide avenues of Tucson, Arizona. Our promenades usually took place…

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.