Why had I loved the sea? It wasn’t like the sea I loved in my head… It was trawl the nets, pull the nets, dump the fish, and sift the fish, or be dropped at the next docking without money.
Over broken synaptic impulse fire is wait. Is through bleeding color. I am
Interview & Review
Leticia Urieta interviews Stalina Emmanuelle Villareal on her translation of Enigmas
The ability to hold in one’s hand a beautifully printed chapbook, like an intimate secret, of poems written four centuries ago is a gift restored to the modern reader.
In the best stranger-comes-to-town-literature, the narrative is less about the actual stranger, and more about the impact of the newcomer’s presence.
J. Bailey Hutchinson
When I wake, it is for no one’s hunger / but my own & the bird and the toast are precisely what / I tell them to be. If that is bullfinch and burnt / then so.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since—the knowledge of last times, the foreknowledge of doing something that you’ll never do again. Would that be better or worse than doing something for the last time without any idea that you’ll never do it again?
Stu Gill interviews Rebecca Morgan Frank
Poets are often magpies of sorts, we steal little glittering threads of ideas from others and make our own creations of them.
the front yard is empty of snow the bushes do not hold out prickly leaves the front door does not sit unlocked
“Are you trying to say you think you’re gay?” My mother asked, just as I was about to repeat the story, in shorter version, to my father.
She was the first girl you met who talked about Miyamoto and Kojima as if they were Shakespeare and Faulkner; she seemed at a young age to have been grabbed by the same unseen hand that drew you to these fantastical worlds where things finally made sense.
I can feel my lover child growing when I walk between the trees with my sweater rolled to let my child breathe.
Life is Beautiful is the bildungsroman of the rarest kind: it is for the Queer, the POC, the punks, the drunks, and the rebel in all of us. It is human ordered chaos, rapturous and divine.
Courtney’s lines don’t flinch from the tension between surviving and being the one who survived.