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
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
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
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
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, 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,
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 &
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
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
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