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Natasha close up Two Sylvias

We bed down in a room/named Poppy/the sound of something alarming/across the hall

tom blood

a man carrying a dirigible defense/the one we hand around is full/final and stifling, like a love or re-entry


In 2021, we’ll have jetpacks. FREE JETPACKS.

carabella sands

I found a new boyfriend. He approached me while I watched birds pluck worms out of a rainy field. I asked him why the birds were able to find worms as soon as they landed. He said worms float on water. Then he kissed me. I felt like a worm.

bobby parker

He stares at her chest, the line of cleavage that may as well be a crack in his bedroom wall, thinking maybe the sun will explode if he reaches out and touches it, that she might hold his haunted hand tight against her heart until it gets dark, and tell him their marriage was a message that failed to send, and tell him their daughter is a dream

cob, like bone—no rain on the horizon—
rows of kernels puckering,
until the corn prays
for even earworms and flea beetles to come

As both a nursing student and a patient, I have encountered repeated instances of clinicians and other health professionals using strikingly inappropriate language to talk to and about the people they are caring for. This is especially true in women’s health, a field that is positively rife with, for lack of a fancier term, bad language. Let’s begin with a seemingly benign example. When a baby is born, we often describe him or her as having been “delivered.” Delivered from what? Evil? The postal service?

Lasky’s poetics channel something of Johnston’s powerful lack of pretense—the difference is that we know Lasky can sing. Johnston’s brilliance was his art’s power over and against the lack of traditional “talent” of its artist—Lasky, though, is unbearably talented.


In 2013 and 2014, several houses of The Heidelberg Project were destroyed by separate acts of arson. No perpetrator has been caught, and the houses were damaged beyond repair. Rather than despair, however, the folks at THP -- led by Tyree -- simply turned the burned-out shells into something new and newly lovely.

On the way back to the boy’s house you will ask about his girlfriend.
You will think of three as a prime number.
Things will not go well,
as things sometimes don’t.
For a while you will speak to neither of them.
The boy will become famous and you will miss him,
but you will never admit to this weakness.

You will think about the girl every day for the next twelve years.

The poems radiate a murky symbolism that is mysterious and sexualized, echoing and promising violence: women carry boxes of sadness, lace drags on the ground, sometimes the lace is blood-stained. Hundreds of bears lumber and low softly outside the windows.


  Mary Tewksbury is a whiskey-swiggin', bluegrass-pickin' singer-songwriter from upstate New York, who frequently performs solo, as well as with the band Next to Kin. She got this tattoo to carry with her a representation of "strong and beautiful women taking a hold of life." For Tewks, this concept is bound up with her love of music. She chose the spot for her ink -- her right upper arm -- based upon the old idea that the right side of the body conveys a public image to the world (when having one's palms read, for example, the right palm frequently suggests what personal traits one is comfortable displaying as a public image, or the identity you want to project to people around you). "This is the comfortable side of me," she [...]

This is a culture of ornament,

of collections. Some contain gazes, some victims. Imagine
taking a limo around a busy block and rolling the window

down so just your gloved hand can wave at the pedestrians
as they look and try to find a recognizable face, understand

the way that whoever within has had her hopes realized.
It’s not terrible, but it sounds like it when we’re on one

side of the glass.

In relationships, how do we manage our multiple selves? Can we truly be the same person alone and with others? The Green Condition, by Elizabeth J. Colen, explores the notion of the self. Part collage, part lyric essay, and part animal invocation, Colen traverses different spheres . . .


  Susan Deer Cloud is a mixed-lineage mountain Indian from the Catskill Mountains. An alumna of Binghamton University (B.A. & M.A.) and Goddard College (MFA), she is the recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, two New York State Foundation for the Arts Poetry Fellowships, an Elizabeth George Foundation Grant and a Chenango County Council for the Arts Individual Artist Grant. Published in numerous literary journals and anthologies, her most recent books are Hunger Moon, Fox Mountain, Braiding Starlight, Car Stealer and The Last Ceremony. Deer Cloud is the editor of ongoing Native anthology I Was Indian (Before Being Indian Was Cool) and the Re-Matriation Chapbook Series of Indigenous Poetry (FootHills Publishing).

Just in time for November’s end, this week’s feature offers a heady mix of augury and inspiration. Here’s the stunning title poem from Kirun Kapur’s new book, a powerful first first collection that charts indelible histories.   Visiting Indira Gandhi’s Palmist I don’t know when I realized he had one eye that watched me, alive, the other free to read the heavens. Could he see I grew where others couldn’t? Could he read my face, in its lines all their faces—my aunt’s that morning, in the mirror beside mine, hissed, don’t stare, don’t forget details, it’s your honor to look for all of us. Did he see I hated his eye, sometimes, hated my honor: the hand always above me. Which eye reads that hand? Which eye can judge its [...]