I’d like to talk to this photo of me next to the piano,/ To the eleven year-old boy with flaming cheeks.
Three poems from Sara Shagufta's book Aankhein which have been translated from the original Urdu by Arshi Yaseen.
How could you know it would be like this:/ touching the keys of a piano/ and not finding a sound about it.
Before the beds went away/ There were bedtimes.
Susannah Nevison talks about disability, mass incarceration, and her upcoming collection, Lethal Theatre.
The last bees form a cloud that fills/ the sky. One dies and then/ another, little motor of the brain/ kaput.
My kneecap is a magnet for mosquitos./ They assemble under the picnic pavilion/ And form a small cloud.
Mary Ann Samyn talks about her first encounters with Emily Dickinson's work, her best advice for writing students, and her new collection.
She tells them to believe/ that above all,/ life has been made possible/ only by love.
This is a good time/for abandonment, dear silent,/ cold universe with stairs/that go nowhere,/ where are you taking me?
In your nightmare, you walk slowly underneath an umbrella made out of human/ bones.
My daughter’s sleep/ wave machine/ becomes a granular datum of cheer