Calling poets to a greater role in public life and fostering a national network of socially engaged poets.
By sam saxsometimes i wonder what happens to people’s hands when they disappear
in their pockets. of course, my rational brain knows they go on being hands
but there’s still the question. i wonder if object permanence isn’t the biggest
trick of them all, a scam, a way to ground the brain in its thin bath of liquid
By Doritt Carrollthe first time it happened
i thought i was being strangled
four fingers compressing each side of my throat
no air
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By David GewanterWealth, passing through the hands
of the few, becomes the property
of the many, ensuring the survival
By Ellen BassToday is gray, drizzling,
but not enough for drops to pool
on the tips of the silver needles
or soak the bark of the pines at Ponary—
By Kim RobertsHundreds of tiny fry
crowd the single tank,
churning the water milky.
The fry grow to parr
By Nesha RutherL’chaim to my rabbi who gets red in the face during prayer
and sings off-tune
we can always hear him.
By Julie Enszerto the place where the idea
of being a pinko commie dyke
first entered her mind,
By Sarah SansoloYou wear the faded muslin—
did it begin yours or mine?
Everything we have is both.
Everything we are is both,
By Jen Hoferwhat dateless body what we exacted or nixed or hexed in the eternal present of not being able to – what not being able to not be considered garbage or trashed by the bag
By Allison Pitinii DavisBefore him, stickers fade across the bumper:
LAST ONE OUT OF TOWN, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.
The last employer in Youngstown is the weather:
the truck behind him plows grey snow to the roadside