All articles filed in Poetry

by Prince Bush. Maybe the highest / Stakes, stick scaffolding / On rhetorical structure.

by Mark Steven. The thing about realism / is industry really means / extraction but extraction.

by Christopher Costello. Every urn is always a grenade / Let this one not explode in your hand / All our bodies are already acts of war, / so drop yours from a goddamn airplane.

by Dakotah J. On our camping field trips, they’d say, / “Whoever is lightest when we leave wins.” / Sunscreen was a must for us kids.

by Brendan Joyce. The breeze through the sycamore trees’ sickly leaves / that screams worsening working conditions

by Sean Bonney. It’s all visible now. Everything. It’s just that all the meanings have changed, and the names no longer apply. We lean against walls, our hands over our faces, and watch the parade. We are naked and frightened.

by Matt Broomfield. off the shoulders of the front lines / there are mothers stirring great big pots of beans / to feed the solid-bellied women / in the killing machine

by Jamie Hood. Let me try again. We know this story. A girl wanders alone in a wood. A path, unencumbered.

by Morgan Dowdy. we shouldn’t be here but we are / precisely here / in this groove of the rock / at the electrified edge of the yard / chewing gum and shutting down