Two Poems

ROOTING DOWN It sounds like a room of tiny bells, the wind coming in through a small, stained window Butterfly shells pucker their lips and recede White birds bury orange beaks in the folds of their chests We are in a rounded world sun setting into darkened line between water and air You are wearing … Continue reading Two Poems

ROOTING DOWN It sounds like a room of tiny bells, the wind coming in through a small, stained window Butterfly shells pucker their lips and recede White birds bury orange beaks in the folds of their chests We are in a rounded world sun setting into darkened line between water and air You are wearing rose on your wrists, in your hair And I am staring as the clouds swallow the sun whole SNOW ON THE AIRPLANE WINDOW It rains, and all for you, Of. . . Read more
Rachel Kaufman
On a Tuesday

Here, now, a half-dozen people are nearly touching one another under the rubble of the Salvation Army thrift store. By evening, I have exhausted the coverage. There’s a photo of a family standing at the edge of the cluttered lot. To their left, an excavator rests with its head down. Dust coats the daughters’ hair. … Continue reading On a Tuesday

Here, now, a half-dozen people are nearly touching one another under the rubble of the Salvation Army thrift store. By evening, I have exhausted the coverage. There’s a photo of a family standing at the edge of the cluttered lot. To their left, an excavator rests with its head down. Dust coats the daughters’ hair. They’ll be gone as soon as the light changes. Their car is just around the corner; with the walls gone, you can see it. What surrounds the car is full. . . Read more
Griffin Brown
Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree

A poem by Rachel Yalowitz

I was the shadow of the Kookaburra hanging on my windowpane. The glass superimposed my toothless smile onto the blue crescent of his wing. When his eyes overlapped mine, I revealed my teeth in laughter, and he echoed me in a round. I laughed louder; he cackled and called me insane, but I was the shadow of the Kookaburra slain. Kookaburra sits on a rusty nail but where is the hammer, where is the axe that turned the old gum tree into the window frame.. . . Read more
Rachel Yalowitz
Wait What’s the Question?

A poem by Pablo Uribe

I got us a mystery and I need you!   I’ll say when Can you make magic with how about this? The mountain is not preserving    I don’t care about the dirt in my mouth I need to grab on to this rope of yours Is the water broken?    Is that a tree or a grave? Yes   without a wing it’s not a ship    but I found all the animals on that day Who here can keep promises? Nobody    Throw. . . Read more
Pablo Uribe
Lubbert Das

A poem by Elias Bartholomew

The doctor is bent at the waist, working furiously, his instruments plotted around him like counting-houses in the town square. The patients wait while a flower unfolds from his open head. Soon, the doctor will break for a light lunch. Outside, the freeway is under close scrutiny, the birds floating so peacefully they might be drones. They pass through arches inscribed with the compact names of the sane. Even the serifs look muscular. I feel like I have a kitchen funnel on my head! and. . . Read more
Elias Bartholomew
Mispronunciations

A poem by Jake Orbison.

We cannot tell anyone where we are going, but they all know we are lost. We walk from the mountain to a café to another café talking about what foundations are best to build on. We make guesses. Respect, money. It would have to be something unlike bricks that can evolve with the structure it creates. Love. No, not love. Anything but love. We know we are more or less talking about affection. We stay nights on Duluth and enjoy pushing the sounds through our. . . Read more
Jake Orbison
pickle jar apology

A poem by Charlotte Ferenbach.

pickle jar apology Because gratitude is finite and because apparently, there was never remorse to start with, what I get instead is handed a jar of pickles. I sit on the floor in front of everyone. I accept because I am on a floor and it is in front of everyone. I eat and am silent. The muscle brines. * I would have preferred them the afternoon the birdwatcher showed us how to look, When he tasted the way leaves do if they’re new and. . . Read more
Charlotte Ferenbach
Bless

A poem by Hayun Cho.

You, child of something resembling country, resembling woman – You have tripped over your own blessings. You repeat into eternity. Womanhood you’ve never known, history you’ve thrown to the wind. No use thinking of history. You are just another child, drifting away. The subway hurtles into black – you are in the guts of Seoul. Hanyang. Joseon. Daehan Minguk. Soldiers clutch parcels. They are as young as you are. One soldier has a name that makes you want to write a poem. Immediately, you feel. . . Read more
Hayun Cho
valley

The hills of Austria are like a sleeping Clifford, Or like the carcass of a giant babushka from the valley rises the thick fertilizer smell and three young boys in striped wool sweaters, lead by their blonde sister, weave through the still army of stalactic pines

The hills of Austria are like a sleeping Clifford, Or like the carcass of a giant babushka from the valley rises the thick fertilizer smell and three young boys in striped wool sweaters, lead by their blonde sister, weave through the still army of stalactic pines. . . Read more
Gideon Broshy
Out fencing new pasture

A poem by Justine Cefalu.

I am tied by a golden ribbon, umbilical cord of late afternoon, to the ground. The land is a constellation of clapboard houses ringed by purple lupine. Hedgerows are cracks, threads tracing edges where light blooms, the gold-green, green-gold of a field dotted with sheep. I am kneeling, my arms around the warm belly of a deep-brown ewe. I scooped her stillborn lamb, soft-boned, into a box, and now I am milking out her thick cream onto grass, feeding fields.. . . Read more
Justine Cefalu