The seed of the flower of death, as small as a foxglove aphid, plants itself in the loam of birth to wind its roots and piercing stalk through the lattice of our organs until there’s no space left to burrow. It’s only then that the bud bursts our skin, to begin to unfurl its dark […]
Poetry
The Titan Arum
Self-Portrait as an Aerial View of Vancouver Island
by Clara Otto
The mother was a woman who was a forest fire.
prayer (xviii)
by Jonathan Chan
seeking a / silence, an earthen / mind turns to / itself
The Work of Windows
by Beth Williams
My father built us a house with solid front doors, thick enough to save us from wolves. He hoped every exit would hold tight to its jamb. But arms come with hinges. Harsh is the opening when you can’t see what’s coming. Puberty through a peephole never dares to knock. How […]
(7) :: What Have I to Say in My Wrong Tongue of What Will Come
by Daniel Biegelson
And all our yesterdays and tomorrows join / like river to sea to rain to river. Again.
Three Poems by Gerardo Arístides Rivodó
translated from the Spanish by David M. Brunson
me acostumbraré al presagio
de una casa vacía
al vuelo que dibujas
sobre cielos penitentes
a la rotura de un pájaro
Warrior
by Lane Falcon
the not letting me touch him when mummified again
by medicine and its machines. Even when I wrap
him in his favorite blanket, lift his saddled head and lay
it on his home pillow, he doesn’t look at me. He barely moves.
Inside the Kaleidoscope
by Jane O. Wayne
All it takes is one turn
of the kaleidoscope and the butterfly-world shatters.
Why can’t you learn?
Two Poems by Luis Alberto de Cuenca
translated from the Spanish by Gustavo Pérez Firmat
A witch gave you a pair of legs
(and other things I won’t mention).
Satisfied with your new body, you set off
for dry land. It was August and nobody
was surprised to see you on the beach,
naked and smiling
I Hope Your Birthday Is So Beautiful, It Hurts to Look at It
by Josette Akresh-Gonzales
barbeque and a good dog and beer and acres of thigh-high grass
touched by the first draft of evening. A sunlit breeze lunges
across the hay field. We stand around, breathing.
