Category: Poetry

Robust (Oaken)

Susan Grimm How does the body signal its willingness. The returnof muscle swing, the wherewithal for almost bounce. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stretching the inside stufflike a rusting cord. Full weight on...

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Two Wings to Veil My Face

Kameryn Carter I say Jesus wept in placeof weeping. I say, I wasborn submerged. Proposition:wilted salad in a bag. Corollary:ain’t’a that good news? Today I farewelled my deadin the drive-thru...

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The Book of Summer

Michael Fulop There is so much green in the summer.It is like a book with green pages.And on the pages a script of green writing.The words at first are difficult to make out. But then you see.The...

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Oil Painting of a Hand Holding a Taxidermied Bluebird

Gustav Parker Hibbett Greg Grummer Poetry Contest Runner Up, 2020 Center-right: wings invisible, pinned like buttoned fronts of jackets around a rigid waxdrop body; small-clawed feet fixed or glued...

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MACHINE

Jake Bauer Greg Grummer Poetry Contest Winner 2020 I’d been all morningtrying to fix thisdamn thing. I was aimingto finally nail downthe symbolic.The field by the airportwalked right into...

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Landscape Where I Forget My Father

Jennie Malboeuf The four corners of my eyeline are rich with distraction. An aquarium, a library, a fun park, a creek. In this scene, a shrike crosses the sky, spears a frog on some barb for later....

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Monkey Treachery

Larissa Szporluk Maybe I had a baby with my father. Maybe I’m lying. Maybe I wish  I had a father, then a baby, then another baby, then a break—  what use is a child, or a finger? If we had...

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Rapture

Mary Jo Amani Pay careful attention lest with all the fluctuations of thoughts the greening power which you have from God dries up in you. ­—Hildegard von Bingen writing to an Abbot 1 I bought an...

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Warming

From Issue 39.2 Janann Dawkins The chlorophyll remains in leaf: the limbsretain their hair: the trees do not believethe sun will set on them. They think the filmof heat is normal—that it will...

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Renegades (for Evelyn Thorne)

From Issue 1.1 (Spring 1972) Jim Everhard In the darkness the moon opensand there is nothing but lightin the twists of its mind,the unthought of dreamsof dead men bending back toward the...

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