Sarah Hutchins Magic Trick Move me to the brink of my seat, fingers clutching the edge, transport me elsewhere, where I can taste the grit swirling in the air, feel the callused palm of the character’s reaching hand, smell the sweat clinging to her skin, and hear her heartbeats echo in mine. More than you […]
Read MoreSarah Hutchins Nocturne After all of the trees harvested for houses, furniture, and sundries now rot from the autumn rainstorms, and animal corpses decompose atop shallow graves, and there’s nothing left to burn, one last piano remains with its melodies to warm and satisfy our hungry ghosts through the cold, bitter nights. More than you […]
Read MoreTim Brockett The Archaeology of My Old Man Howard Carter cracked open your tomb and wept at the pointlessness of what you saved, the tax returns, unbroken trail of inkblots back to 1949, chronicle of all your time on Earth was worth to you, and what you swapped it for, until the news came from […]
Read MoreHowie Good God Who? Thin as a ghost, you checked out of this hotel at the end of the universe, leaving a note, written in black fire on white fire, where no one will find it. Howie Good has a thousand million questions about hate and death and war.
Read MoreDevin Balwit Argument Hot, we yell—breaking windows to feed the conflagration, ignoring the flare of support beams, the shift that signals collapse. Devon Balwit has been known to fan the flames. Editors’ Note: Come on by for Devon Balwit week, July 25-29, on One Sentence Poems.
Read MoreMike Wahl At the Beach I want to lean against your back, shoulder blades to shoulder blades, sitting on the soft sand where it has no backrest of its own, and listen to the surf forever. Mike Wahl is a poet of opportunity, grabbing concepts and phrases from observations in his rural northern Alabama surroundings, […]
Read MoreBill Yarrow Unseenly Over the years, his face began to alter, becoming not round but rounder not kind but kinder, not ruddy but red, the map of his complexion now filled in with rivers of creases, lakes of dis- coloration, saharas of psoriasis, waterfalls of burst veins, tufts of vegetation sprout- ing with no or […]
Read MoreH. Edgar Hix The Echoes Worse than the screams are the echoes that whisper, “The emptiness is already here.” H. Edgar Hix is still H. Edgar Hixing around south Minneapolis to the pleasure of a few, the dismay of a few more, and the complete indifference of most.
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