The sun floats up, and stops. / The magpie waits to be two. The sparrow hides // beside the mailbox on its iron post, hedge / nailed together by thorns.
“Some days, although we cannot pray—because we are too busy, or because we are in too much pain, or simply because the words will not come—a prayer utters itself.”
This month: surviving pain through poetry, surviving the climate apocalypse through new (and ancient) narratives, surviving the present through dystopian fiction.
We are / afraid that our parents will see us one day on television: / limbs heaped over each other, syrup-drenched, becoming pixels / that flit across the screen.
This is what I want to do with my late seventies, / honor the sky, scatter stained glass on the sidewalk, // follow the path their hues take us, you beside me.
The end-of-summer book rush is here: Jane Austen and the Brontës reimagined, poetry lauding birdsong and lamenting Twitter, and new novels by familiar authors.
A new, polyphonic collection with poems by more than a hundred Latinx writers responds to the vexed problem of identity with expansiveness, not reductionism.
