by Gail Wronsky

In the urn of the lengthening day
The man who will die on my street
Is walking backward toward traffic

With his shirt on backward,
A bright orange vest, backward, and
His dirty white hair straight up

As if it were fire. ...


by Francesca Bell

Although he stinks,
I love to hold his small
brokenness on my lap,
reeking teeth worn down
on a metal cage to almost
nothing, tongue that hangs ...


by Josh Honn

I ate
this morning
a clementine
this morning ...

Birds of Illegal Trade

by Benjamin Garcia

To be a traitor is to trade—
Take, for example, the blue macaw
of my childhood, traded ...

Schadenfreude, Austin

by Carrie Fountain

February is checking my e-mail
while waiting at the drive-thru
dry cleaners to pick up my husband’s ...


by Ángel García

I trace my finger along a warm map:
from Chiapas to Tabasco
from Tabasco to Campeche ...

Golden Eggs

by Stephanie Brown

Cooked, the socks, the pantry stocked,

Thanksgiving dinner for twenty.

Crab apples around the turkey on a platter I’d serve

Modeled from a photograph.

I was modeled on a photograph.

Clean floor, it was perfect.

One exact book on the table, dust it. ...


by Blas Falconer

The ruffled hem floats
as you spin.
Of them all,

the one you like
The ruffled hem, as you ...


by Irene Sanchez

Freeways connect
The Golden State
3 strikes ...

The Santa Anas

by Caitlin Mohney


from here the earth
is a shade of the darkest ...

The Night Moving

by Magda Kapa

How does the night move?
There must be a moment
when it moves over your body ...


by Cynthia Atkins

O sister on the other side
of the mirror, all sass and vinegar.  
Galaxy of lace and petticoats ...

Regarding the Man With the Stolen Past

by Jon Thompson

Imagine a novel about a man who
never knew his early years; it comes across as

a fictionalized story that nevertheless feels overwhelming
in the rich particularity of his life, and its

equally rich loneliness, as he struggles to live it.
Or perhaps it’s about a fictionalized man

with a lost past that was real, utterly real,
and his growing up is the story ...

Sand and Bone

by Annie Finch

        (Todd’s Point, Reid State Park, Maine)

I came shivering, knowing how lines of the tide
will use seaweed, and sea-drift, and sea-wrack (and bone) ...

What to Donate

by Barbara Morales

Clothes in cuts of shirts, pants, coats, jackets, sweaters, blouses, nightgowns and robes. Not/ underwear or bras - throw these out. There’s too much of her in them to give ...

Can’t Tell You Much

by Jed Myers

In the frozen aisle’s uniform glare/ a tall boy stares. Not through the glass/ doors at tubs of ice cream or the stacked/ pizzas in cardboard. Through the air/ ahead, toward the checkout registers,

but I’m sure it’s nothing there, not the movie/ magazines, racks of chocolate bars, dyed/ carnation bouquets. I’d say he looks/ amazed by a scene in the near future.

Come to a standstill as if he means/ to keep what distance he can between/ himself and his premonition, he’s focused ...