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2 Poems

Paúl Puma, transl. by Jonathan Simkins

You return, at last. / At the edge no longer./ At the margin’s curve no longer. / Circular no longer. / In the embers of unfading foam. / The sputum of inscrutable lava.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Can I Have a Hug First?

Mary Paula Hunter

As a witness should I run to her? Make sure she's not suffering a stroke or an aneurysm? I pictured a headline demanding the whereabouts of a witness who'd left the scene of a potential homicide.

My Mother's Face

Claire Scott

my mother leaning in listening / her usual face her yesterday’s face / out cold on the couch

Communicating with Your Dead: An Interview with Sam Roxas-Chua

David Nilsen

"I've always been interested in the invisible poem. When a poem is finished, what is the undercurrent? What is it still trying to say?"

How to Forget a River

M.K. Foster

Why hide? To be found. Why be found?

From the Archives

3 Poems

Kamil Bouška, transl. by Ondrej Pazdírek

We're not here yet, and still the key aches in the lock. I am leaving, and it's as if I was returning

Crocuses

Alexandra Salerno

The house had a pointed, skinny frame, like a too-tall man. It was a pus-yellow clapboard, perverse against the snow. “Perfect,” Celia said...

Two Poems

Henrietta Goodman

I called desire a lie that wants a cure, but don't assume the cure for lies is truth, or that by cure I meant a kind of health

the bed was a blues lyric,

Patricia Smith

the bed was every damned thing a man says / before he screeches gimme my gun...

From the Blog

MASS CULTURE AND THE AMERICAN POET:
THE POEM AS VACCINATION

I once drove around southwest Arizona with a photographer named Pedro, from Mexico City. His specialty was making ethnographic forays into North America,…

Travels with Steve, and Good Writing

My old friend and former teacher Steve Orlen and I walked many miles together along the wide avenues of Tucson, Arizona. Our promenades usually took place…