Oil: A Love Poem

By Chris August America, don’t we love like oil?
Don’t our slippery arms
Pave the pores of those who need us?

Daisy Cutter

By Camille T. Dungy Pause here at the flower stand-mums
and gladiolas, purple carnations
dark as my heart.

By Jody Bolz Pages flit above the ruined bookstalls.
Blank or dark with words, it doesn’t matter:
paper is as dangerous as ink—as thought.

By Carly Sachs Where does memory go?
Our windows looking out on the bay,
my wet clothes hanging on the antlers

By Jericho Brown Not the palm, not the pear tree
Switch, not the broomstick,
Nor the closet extension
Cord, not his braided belt, but God

By Tara Betts Quiet girl found a voice mama could not quell
inside Nutbush City Limits. The baby
blasted beyond timid Annie Mae into Tina

By Lori Desrosiers I was the wrong kind of bride,
more sweat than glisten,
more peach than pomegranate.

By Randall Horton The gavel
The splintered body
The red-neck guards

By Philip Metres In the green beginning,
in the morning mist,
they emerge from their chrysalis

By Remica L. Bingham I enter to find all the students in uniform
occupying a small room.