All articles filed in Poetry

by Stephanie Cawley. A machine weaves cloth / so a woman can write / a poem. The machine weaves / so one woman can write

by Isaac Pickell. if black were human / it would be already / if you were breathing / you would be all ready

by Devyn Springer. the apocalypse was rhodesia was israel / was the united east india company / was new zealand and australia / was jim crow and jim jones

by Khalypso. no & i have only just considered stopping. / it doesn’t hurt enough. the pain has only just settled / into the grooves—maybe there’s spendable gold

by Stephanie Kaylor. The days I am tired after bed because my bed is my office and I recall its etymology, pertaining to moral duty, performance of a task; the days I think what it means to go to bed after that, how I dream myself

by Ernest Tjia. At the Charlotte Douglas Airport there is a mural / featuring an alligator flying, wearing a yellow / dress shirt that has been tailored-fit to

by Benjamin Aleshire. I drug my canvas sack through snow, packed with words: They / are super-predators who must be brought to heel. Technically I was a / contractor, buying these words whole-sale

by Mark Cugini. In the final days of the gilded age, the last remaining son of Cornelius Vanderbilt buried a horse’s heart in the forest and took a shit in the hole.

by sung. Do u think my neighbor Michael who can’t tell whether I’m a man or a woman hates me because I don’t mow my lawn or because he can’t tell whether I’m a man or a woman

by Jason Crane. The other day at my job — / wearing my corporate uniform, / the one with the logo on the left breast —