poetry

diane seuss

Even now, when the plot calls for me to turn to stone, the sun intervenes. Some mornings in summer I step outside and the sky opens and pours itself into me as if I were a saint about to die. But the plot calls for me to live, be ordinary, say nothing to anyone. Inside the house the mirrors burn when I pass.

Let Birds By Linda Gregg

Day of Mourning by Jill E. Stevens for her friend Jimi Ciulla

For eleven years I have regretted it, regretted that I did not do what I wanted to do as I sat there those four hours watching her die. I wanted to crawl in among the machinery and hold her in my arms, knowing the elementary, leftover bit of her mind would dimly recognize it was me carrying her to where she was going.

Thanks by Victoria Chang

Stop Me if  You’ve Heard This One Before by Kaveh Akbar

KATE BAER

In a Dream by Anna Akhmatova

the undertaking by Louise Glück

Gabrielle Calvocoressi, “No Poems Today,” in The New Economy

Postcard from Gone — Leila Chatti

— Stolen Moments, Kim Addonizio