Poetry

Climate Passover

By

Someday they will askWhat were they thinking?

When the car is hurtlingOff the overpassTowards the riverWhat is the child in the backseatThinkingExcept doors and windows?

Poetry

if I have an addiction to water, know that it’s hereditary

By

Taylor Kirby

i was baptized so many times, my familymust not have understood its action as rebirth.instead: accumulation. each time we broke

Poetry

Keep On

By

Alexandria Delcourt

I saw you sitting on the roof that night,the stars having descendedFrom their dusty perches to hangLike old dreams from your shirt pocket.

Poetry

This Is First Son | Second Son

By

Nick Sengstock

This is firecrackerfuse out, of the mouthof a mostly-dead fish,scooped from the bait binwhere our grandpawould keep a few—fireworks in the handsof too young boyswith too much time

Poetry

Shiny Lures

By

Elizabeth Harrahy

She lifts two buckets from his truckbefore he can tell her what to do.The clank and weight of skimmers, rodsand spinning reels, plastic tackle boxesfull of lures that once fascinated, now

Poetry

Survival Skills for the Anthropocene

By

Lailah Dainin Shima

Listen. Even now, as ice cracks,a chickadee sings its spring song.

Speak only true names. Redwing blackbird.Orb-weaver eggs. Dragon cladonia.

When you want to clarify what you meantto say, say thank you.

Poetry

In this story, is a person on a bus or in a bus?

By

Jeanie Tomasko

Winter mornings I walk outside before the world starts up again. An occasional car, the early bus with one person on it. Sometimes the wind hasn’t even started and the heat from the chimneys of all the sleepers rises up above the houses.

Poetry

Memorial Days

By

Claire Lewandowski

This isn’t a protest, you understand.Bonfire in May with wood that’s gone dry,we’re burning the things that cannot withstand.

Poetry

It Is, It’s Not

By

Jim Landwehr

It’s still a ways away. It’s going to go away, you know. It’s still there. It is, or it isn’t. It’s in the mail. It’s in the console. It’s the perfect fit. It’s me versus you. It’s something we can all look back to. It’s forward looking.

Poetry

Home in the Borderland

By

Curt Meine

The border is never real. Imagined, invented, imposed,hardening space at the current confluence of cultures,away from the poles and centers, hinterlands holdingtheir own, identities carved out of contrast, distinct

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Poetry