Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin

Water has no memory
and you drown in it like a kind of absence.
It falls apart
in a continual death
a hundred-gallon tank as
innocent as outer space.


Earth remembers
facts about your relations;
wood passes on patristic
bone and feather,
charcoal remembering
and every stone recalls its quarry and the axe.

Photo by Victor Malyushev on Unsplash

the ungay science


The Ungay Science
Carlos Drummond de Andrade


A Ingaia ciência

A madureza, essa terrível prenda
que alguém nos dá, raptando-nos, com ela,
todo sabor gratuito de oferenda
sob a glacialidade de uma estela,

a madureza vê, posto que a venda
interrompa a surpresa da janela,
o círculo vazio, onde se estenda,
e que o mundo converte noma cela.

A madureza sabe o preço exato
dos amores, dos ócios, dos quebrantos,
e nada pode contra sua ciência

e nem contra si mesma. O agudo olfato,
o agudo olhar, a mão, livre de encantos,
se destroem no sonho da existência.

Photo by Kirill Balobanov on Unsplash

end of marriage


At the End of My Marriage, I Think of Something My Daughter Said About Trees
Maggie Smith

When a tree is cut down, the sky’s like
finally, and rushes in.

Even when you trim a tree,
the sky fills in before the branch

hits the ground. It colors the space blue
because now it can.


Photo by Erwin Voortman on Unsplash

why we are all afraid to be


Why We Are All Afraid to Be
Nikita Gill

She speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
apologizes, ashen-faced
for speaking at all.

All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
by lashing out with ignorance
at her sublime and pure words
and telling her to
be quiet, stop talking,
because nobody cares.

If you pay attention long enough,
it’s a familiar story.
The boy who rarely participates.
The old woman who is too hesitant
to join in a conversation.
The man who thinks three seconds
too long before he speaks.

People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.

Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash




Andrei Codrescu

Power is an inferiority complex wound up like a clock by an
inability to relax. At the height of my power I have to be taken to
a power source in the woods where I am recharged. This power
source is not actually in the woods: it’s in my mother. It hums
quietly in her heart like an atomic plant and the place to plug in is
her eyes.

Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

slowly started


Poem (The Day Gets Slowly Started)
James Schuyler

The day gets slowly started.
A rap at the bedroom door,
bitter coffee, hot cereal, juice
the color of sun which
isn’t out this morning. A
cool shower, a shave, soothing
Noxzema for razor burn. A bed
is made. The paper doesn’t come
until twelve or one. A gray shine
out the windows. “No one
leaves the building until
those scissors are returned.”
It’s that kind of a place.
Nonetheless, I’ve seen worse.
The worried gray is melting
into sunlight. I wish I’d
brought my book of enlightening
literary essays. I wish it
were lunch time. I wish I had
an appetite. The day agrees
with me better than it did, or,
better, I agree with it. I’ll
slide down a sunslip yet, this
crass September morning.


Photo by Bastian Pudill on Unsplash

end of the text


At the End of the Text, a Small Bestial Form
Laura Kasischke

This is the glimpse of the god you were never supposed to get. Like the fox slipping into the thicket. Like the thief in the night outside the window. The cool gray dorsal fin in the distance. Invisible mountain briefly visible through the mist formed of love and guilt.

And the stranger’s face hidden in the family picture. The one

imagining her freedom, like

the butterfly blown against the fence in her best yellow dress by the softest breeze of summer:

To have loved and to have suffered. To have waited for nothing, and for nothing to have come.

And the water like sleek black fur combed back that afternoon:

The young lovers rowed a boat. The boy reeled in a fish. The husband smiled, raising a toast.

While the children grew anxious for dinner. While something struggled under the water bound by ropes. And the warm milk dribbled down the sick man’s chin. And the wife, the mother, the daughter, the hostess, and those few people on earth she would ever wish were dead would be the ones she loved the most

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash