Contributed By: Allison Blevins
Keep watch over your children. Forget about linger and loaf. Think of all the yeses you’ve spoken. Aim to be small. Remember loving the sound of some place: a hum or a whoosh. When the men come, when they swell, chests puffed full of gospeled breath, let them come.
Be broken like kindling. Remember your mother’s perfume. Think of the hills, deep and lasting. Keep watch over your feet. Slink into the cracks in the sidewalk. Be mud.
Return to table of contents for Issue 10 Fall 2016.
I’m going to stop coming out in the usual I don’t want to offend you way. I’ll tell the next children’s librarian who asks me my husband’s name about the time a cop held my wife against…
An animal scared silent, rabbit atremble in the morning grass, belly fur slick to the ground, the ground warming to the hands of sun and light. A salt lick, discovered in a day-to-day field, crusted…
Hoohooooooo a man kneels down before an even more powerful man his hand imagines a cat with lonely fur curtain seltzer weapon lover as the train whistle scratches the face of distances a…
Issue 10 Summer 2016 TERRY ADAMS has poems in Poetry, Ironwood, The Sun, Witness, College English, The Painted Bride Quarterly,and elsewhere. He MCs poetry events at the Beat Museum in San Francisco and in La Honda, California. His first collection, Adam’s Ribs, is available from Off…
8:15 Splendidly beautiful day: intense sun and blue sky. Big cloud of smoke at town hall. Nine guerrillas on the corner. Indigenous Tzeltals all. Nothing on the radio: “They smashed the station to pieces,“ Dora reports. They turned the policemen loose: some of them passed this way, freezing to death, without shirts, without shoes, without socks. […]
Your low errand. Remember all the bras you’ve seen? How about that one with the lace? Eat your food and forget your gods. The cat lays next to you as a troublesome ox. It is less of a vigil, with that rouge of him lying next to you, innocently licking scabs. Ill things were said […]
How to say that we are all / of these stars, that I want / the suffering I cause to be less / than the raindrops on the fern fronds / outside their fog-blurred windows
