Palm trees flash past barred windows, and words waft over the train’s noisy pulse. Palm trees flash past barred windows, and words waft over the train’s noisy pulse. Something is different—conjugations of verbs, endings of nouns—but I still understand these pieces of...
uluka my Sanskrit owl vahana, vehicle of Laksmi sharing the name with a muni, sage uluka my Sanskrit owl vahana, vehicle of Laksmi sharing the name with a muni, sage that term from silence itself uluka a kind of grass sound in grass perhaps uluka the quiver i feel...
The honourable mention of our 2014 poetry contest, judged by Sonnet L’Abbé. Wet light hints at the tin roofs of Dawson City squats, the barn-like red wood exterior of the Downtown Hotel. The sky says dawn but my watch says 3. I am coming home from the The Midnight Sun...
Alia and Natty smoke real cigarettes. They light up, breathe in smoke oh-so smooth and breathe out like old-fashioned pros. i. Alia and Natty smoke real cigarettes. They light up, breathe in smoke oh-so smooth and breathe out like old-fashioned pros. I wanna try....
Hey, you! Respect the metropolis with all of its swagger, Hey, you! Respect the metropolis with all of its swagger, those who circumvent swinging glass doors, who enter with seraphic magic, who float the economy. A swerve, an offshoot in a dawdling line makes shoppers...
Frozen diesel mud is shinier than you’d think chest high wild rose plates tuck into a new truck that says warm fresh tough clean your favorite expensive underwear Frozen diesel mud is shinier than you’d think chest high wild rose plates tuck into a new truck that says...
My mom loves us, loves to make us beautiful, make my sister and me into one girl— a pageant of Persia. “Murder me if this is all it takes to make me beautiful” —Iranian proverb, only used by women My mom loves us, loves to make us beautiful, make my sister and me into...
My husband wants to know why the line is always broken. I say the poem is made of words, but the words are not the poem. The words are the way in. The broken lines are openings. I remember how his skin turned gold under a streetlight the first time he took off his...
We polish our big bellies with creams, we henna Eden vines on them, we Buddha rub them, as do strangers, for wealth. In birth class they tell us your body was made for this. They tell us your mothers were strapped down and drugged. We are capable of doing so...
I hide my power in a cloak I hoard as anger. My jaw gears like a charging bull; hairs horn from my butting forehead. “sky. There is no edge from which to hang my plumb-line. No ledge on which to lay my spirit-level. And you are outside piling logs, working on your own...