Poems from the Spring 2020 issue.
In bedsheets, we are gravel thrown
from the wheels of a pickup; we are making a mess
of our bodies, so our lives will be less so.
A poem from the Place Issue
Two hundred thousand miles away / in this ashen desolate terrain / you could almost forget our gun-smoked globe, / the wars raging like wildfire back home.
A poem from our winter 2014 issue.
Like a lark lift into moonlight. Like the muzzle
of a gun I should have raised. Like NPR.
Like the joyride in an elevator by two teens
“Of Thorns,” “Trundle,” “Liquid Assets,” “The Hill Itself”
. . . in that shabby closeness, that’s where whatever it is that saves me is,
where, praise to be something, it waits in briars like Jesus or literature.
A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.
that hid me, thrummed knuckle-red,
a belting out—ribs, wrist, my gone warble
knocked soundless, torched wails uprooting:
What a song to be bosomed with.
A poem from the Fall 2017 issue.
Always smoked so many seeds.
You will find yourself dragging
a live rabbit
by one foot, the other kicking.
A poem from the Texas Music Issue
Townes Van Zandt kissed me on the cheek
after I guarded his guitar.
He had stayed in the bathroom a very long time.
I asked if he needed food
and he said, I never eat.
A poem from the Spring 2017 issue.
boys shouting curses and most of them drunk.
I remember the wind in the barley stubble.
I remember the man they dragged from the trunk.
A poem from the Fall 2017 issue.
in Indy than Virginia, fewer mountains,
less green for our eyes, and our cat
wasn’t born there, she was born here,
under the house, and if nothing
