poetry

The chrome Indian head of a black  ’49 Pontiac Chieftain Coupe, shimmers in the late afternoon sun. My Dad had one fifty years ago; it had leaky...

In a one-room schoolhouse a cast iron pot belly stove burned through great stacks of wood and sometimes mice whose necks had snapped in shiny steel...

“The poem has a very clever title and is delightfully inventive from there on. The word choices are stunningly original throughout. This poem does...

The little fish yawns like an operatic tenor, as if he wants to sing to the clams that are digging— to the coral reefs who are judging that b-flat...

Tastes like cardboard, you say, face scrunched, wistful of a mother’s recipe you haven’t yet mastered. I swallow my offense: this may be the last...

I cannot consent to swallow your love cold— down my throat you pour, I choke. At five years we left your stranglehold. From you, my childhood was...