Her statement had a dramatic effect, because her hair was floating in practically every direction. It looked a little like a painting of a sunrise.
“Nightmared” by Annie Stenzel
Say I told these stories to a shrink, unfurled each episode/like a story-board, spoke them without undue inflection.
“The Island” by Alex Tunney
The places themselves don’t matter that much. What I remember was the time I spent with him and the conversations we had.
“My Moon Book” by Jordan Davis
Now as the waves crash over us/ and the ones who pushed the buttons/ leave this world to their lizards
“I’ve learned that my experience is my experience and that perhaps there’s comfort to others in articulating that”: An Interview with Oliver de la Paz
But I also don’t let such apprehensions stop me from writing as honestly and personably as I can.
Two Poems by Vivian Wagner
We’re begging the world/to remember our name,/but we barely remember it/ourselves.
“[My mother is suffering from uterine cancer and all I can think about are the 80s]” by Stephen Fellner
That’s the kind of man I am: I don’t believe in any lyric “I.” I don’t have time for any mind games. The “I” is either you or the poem’s a fraud.
Three poems by Julie Bloemeke
He set down my cup, showing me coffee trees,/ Corpus Christi costumes, the totora boats/ drying upward to the sky, the salt collectors/ in the Sacred Valley, sand.
Three Poems by Steven Cordova
“I’ll open a locker and there it’ll be—your head! ‘Thank God you found me!’ it’ll say. ‘I’ve been in here for days!’”
“So Now You Have To Write About the Dead Pheasant” by Karen Skolfield
You point to the pheasant. She’s sad, too. You’re both sad together.
