Remember how you used to catch a fastball right in the sweet spot. That pure, whip-crack sound going home. Or maybe those small birds swept in the eye of a hurricane, riding sunshine and stillness in the carnage. Right place, right time. The absolute focal point, like nirvana, a first kiss,…
Un Mundo —Ángeles Santos (1929); oil on canvas; 290 x 310 cm Tell me where they end, the stars that fire from the sun who chars the world makes corners for its turning— in a Spanish town there was an angel painting a child of nineteen, some say the Spanish Rimbaud— she held a…
I saw you through the broken screen door beyond the porch light that flickered with moths and made your opal eyes dance behind fine rusted tulle scarred by careless men Was the music that played almost imperceptibly inside your head, or was it in mine? RB Wilson lives in the Imperial Valley. He…
“I’ll get there when I get there,” and if I don’t? I wondered that while we sat by the water those years you still needed to look up to me, the graven image of myself I dreaded and remade until I learned who I was, from a distance: I watched you wander woods I planted,…
The Empress she needs a man who knows his anima who can say what he needs or nothing who can bow to the beast in her, mistress of blood, refuse, and rage who sees her like the pomegranate smooth, round, and rosy housing many jagged facets, tumbling into jewels in her belly as…
S.R. Stewart is a poet living in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been published in both literary journals and newspapers. In her spare time, she camps, bakes, and gardens. Stewart blogs at ifyougiveagirlabook.org.
“Offices” I don’t remember where we were, but I knew it was your office. Crowded, messy. Maybe a supply room. And I’d found a puzzle I wanted to take home. It had rain in diagonals over kids in rain coats, under umbrellas and boots, in a tree house, impossibly high in a lush…
in loving milieu I’ll dance upon broken boards over bogs that smoke gently in the evening, over rib-cages patched with the enamored and concussed, in such dimly lit admiration I’ll press my tongue into your wine glass, into the almost empty can you hold between your knees, dented, compressed, and full of your spit. …
open me first narrow commitments within me second bind sharpness outside blurred sex third dress the new strength the way of originals A.P. is the author of Anima (dancing girl press, 2018). She has contributed creative work to DIAGRAM, New England Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, among others. Born in Bucharest, she…
Crimson, cool, crescent: I stare at the bowl. Not into it, but at it. The bowl isn’t fishing for compliments, but I need to characterize it to peacefully dismantle its inanimateness. What it needs is unanimity. The bowl waits to be filled. She calls it a womb for fruits and fingers. A thing to…
