Cyril Wong Milk The white and mushy interior of a cockroach shouldn’t be the stuff of poetry about sex, the end of innocence or even death, yet here we are wiping the milk of its insides from my palm across the wall of this verse. Cyril Wong is a poet and fictionist in Singapore. […]
Read MoreDeepti Sachdev Fingerlips It comes on my fingerlips, dances and disappears – the urge to write. Deepti Sachdev is a maker of poems, dreams, avant garde food and lazy bios.
Read MoreRoss Thompson The Survivors Club Afterwards, when I was dragged from the wreckage of a four year stretch of grinding a furrow of ill health and watching the world slip quietly down the pea green tube that kept me afloat, I woke to a world that felt at once unspoken like an Indian summer yet […]
Read MoreHowie Good In the Dark My thesaurus lists some 140 words related to darkness, including black, blackness, pitch black, night, nightfall, nighttime, umbra, penumbra, umbrous, leaving no doubt that dawn is still far off. Howie Good‘s new collection of prose poetry is Famous Long Ago from Laughing Ronin Press.
Read MoreAnna McElhannon Through the Rearview Mirror I am a backseat driver smoking weed with friends who say they’re proud of me. Anna McElhannon is an undergraduate at the University of Kentucky studying physics and creative writing.
Read MoreJ.R. Solonche Flash Flood A few drops of rain, not even enough to chase me inside, but a moth on the desert of a hosta leaf has found its oasis. Nominated for the National Book Award and twice-nominated for the Pulitzer Prize, J.R. Solonche is the author of twenty-six books of poetry and coauthor of […]
Read MoreDavid Adès Martyr Who is that woman walking so serenely between agitations of us and them, as if there were a middle way, and what does she hope to achieve, so willingly forfeiting her life to crossfire, or the deadly passions of the mob? David Adès is an Australian poet whose most recent book Afloat […]
Read MoreChristine Huang Morning Offering The chilly 6 o’clock air weaves through the bedroom window as I kneel on the wooden floor and when the stillness of the room is disrupted by my whispers, I know that my day is renewed. Christine Huang has a bad habit of writing between midnight and sunrise.
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