by Amy McCann
Didn’t it doily me? Wave-lace
tatting my ankles in an uneven
hem. A forgotten umbrella, a foraging
for shells—those vacant, softly
howling dwellings. . . .
by Jason Myers
We are living in paradise.
The front desk is open twenty-four hours,
the police speak seven languages and don’t dwell
on the insults they’ve endured, the hurts they’ve overheard.
by Kerry Reilly
You met a guy online. You have had four or five dates, and you haven’t so much as held hands. He is artistic. His expensive button-down shirts are decorated with bold, colorful patterns. He has two tickets to the Body Worlds Exhibition in Denver. A traveling display of human bodies and body parts that have been preserved using a process called plastination.
by Philip St. Clair
. . . when the Rapture comes, they will be taken up
only halfway: forever suspended in the middle of the clouds
as the checkerboard earth and the vast blank oceans
revolve beneath, as cryptic patterns left by intercontinental jets
slowly fade away against the blue-black dome above.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections