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Judith Gap

Claire Luchette

Here is something we have learned time and again: you need not love everything. You do not have to devote yourself to what you thought you’d enjoy. You can decide, whenever you like, that what you feel is no kind of love.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

No More Magpies on My Windows: Four Poems

Liu Xia translated by Ming Di

At Night, By Myself                         —for Xiaobo life plays its bleak tunestedious, gloomydaylight without light a rice bowl drops on the floora…

The Lord's Earth

Callie Collins

The whole town of Garland sweltered and glistened. There was fog for months that fall, and the sun hung behind it round and shining like the moon or a piece of fruit. It was hard for Roger to stick around, so he didn’t. Then, after some years, men came to his door.

Spread

Caitlyn GD

The morning of Claire's funeral, I lie naked on the table and wait for her mourners to arrive. Thomas scrapes a knife against whetstone in the kitchen. When he appears above me, the blade glints harsh in his hand. It's all I can see. To minimize the pain, he explains with a paternal smile. I smile too.

Feathers

Jennifer Bullis

St. Christopher strides across the river. Both hands grip a walking staff bracing him against the current, his calf muscles flexing as fish swirl about his legs. He is looking up at the infant Christ perched birdlike on his right shoulder. This is perhaps the moment in which the Saint, who does not yet know the identity of the child, is said to ask Him, “Why are you so heavy?” and Christ answers, “Because I bear on my shoulders the weight of the world.”

From the Archives

Stag, Emblem, Anthem

Joni Wallace

...someone’s / white Dodge pickup blinkering down / the mountain, on the windshield / needle-likes, double columns, pentameters, / Bentley’s iconographic crystals / playing into zero visibility.

The Horoscope Writer

Scott Garson

The horoscope writer kills herself on a Tuesday. It is, by coincidence, the day the weekly paper comes out. Townspeople read her column and find it mundane but also uncanny. Here, some of them feel, are words from beyond the veil.

Ghost Fire

Doug Ramspeck

The old men are unsure. Something is twisting up and up to become a stair. And what is the end for? Who would stop here and dream such accumulations? Once…

Vulgar Remedies: Transgression and Transformation

Anna Journey

Second books can be as different from their predecessors as Plath’s fiery originality of Ariel is distinct from the coolly conventional poise of The Colossus...

From the Blog

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.

Experiments with White Heat

That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…