Residue
In a dream, Deda Savo tells me he misses me, but we’ve never met, not in this life, not even almost. In the morning, I run to his tombstone candles in hand, climb uneven ground, weave through the dead people, find him sitting there with
Category Archives: Poetry
Twentysomething
Q.M. is from China and currently lives in Atlanta, GA. His poems have appeared in Constellations, Lucky Jefferson, Penultimate Peanut, Scribendi, and Blue Tiger Review, among others.
i was the scar
i was the scar, a cradle moon healing slowly, ghost at dawn, bone deep cut with brackish margin. you, lights in a puddle, flower twixt wind and rock, constellation of wisdom, drawn as a hand to salt split lips. Gerald P. Wickham hails from Wexford,
like the june night at an ice-silt lake
My list says water herbs & roses bathe in howsmall you are & this is not defeat says foldclothes & that is not so bad a pleasing kind of curselike hose-water when I gush mint & mud-wet-rushoff my boots or when you hold fennel &
Stories of Leaving
After you left, your wife became a bird, even the gravitational pullCalled her a witch, she has been denied a soft landing, now she searches the sky of Sahara, After you left your mother became a nursery; a piece that should grow something elseNursing flowers
Elegy/Paean, in Twins
Conversation with Max, April 2020 I am in my room, he in his, our gemini miseries roping between us. Not a single 10 minutes passes without me hearing an ambulance or two anymore, he says. Weill Cornell, HSS, and Lenox Hill are all close
A Song for New Orleans
Each street is covered in mud, stray dogs search for their owners bodies they toss and tumble through the wreckage like dendrites, millions of branched extensions pile in the streets a nightmare from hell. Blue gray bits of flesh become one with murky water. The
What’s Flammable
For Refugio Ramirez and his family and Mary Turner and her unborn child For you, I’d do it #It’s common knowledge that we need it #You deserve justice #the time has come #God will not stop it because after all an eye for an eye
OF MEN
steel shoulders, stone jawstrying to be. a man carves, peeling back to that layer oflove only for things rather than pouring his soulhe is one piece of himself my skin was too soft,no plan to reconstruct the world, i cast myself in iron,slicing his self
Convictions
The high school English teacher who opened my mind to Ellison and Woolf and Dostoyevsky, who assigned Prisons We Choose to Live Inside, turned out to be the worst sort of zealot and purist, the kind that postures for radical freedoms publicly and abuses and