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Category Archives: Poetry

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Assembling my dining room table before dinner

I used to cut cucumbers with the green knife and now I use it to dig into the cardboard box—layer of foam. Layer of plastic. The table: four legs and a flat square top. I’m tired and made of knees. All week I’ve been having

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A Transition Like a Mexican Telenovela

the story begins and ends with marriage,or a lack of marriage, which turns into a confession. you confessthere is a gun, hidden in the dirt and grass and no one really remembers it anymore,but everyone can remember a job well done. a father and his

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walkouts

who would do anything for their country if they didn’t first love someone in it sixth grade, I’m scaling a fence with the other immigrant kids, all of us raised on gratitude for a country that doesn’t want us the school’s on lockdown but we’re

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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

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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.

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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,

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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 &

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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

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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

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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