Despite barriers of rat screen, parge, and tar,
despite blustering wind in the chimney,
I think I hear something setting up house
in the cellar. It’s a night to come in
By LAUREN CAMP
If I won’t remember that I was in Virginia last year without praise
of darkness, or the autumn drift I spent in Wisconsin watching a cardinal
nip the oak, if I see and forget field thick over field, the stalks
cut against green—how will I fetch forth the half-dead
By RALPH BURNS
We had to leave because someone saw my
father set his bottle down. Because
of something in us we leaned into one another
By TINA CANE
I woke up in a panic this morning thinking what if my love language
is granola? I found a quiz online but was too chicken to take it having had
Russian bots once read my face and place me alongside a woman holding a mango
or some bullshit in Gaugin
nothing exotic for me today
I’m halfway home to Bed-Stuy
when I feel the cervical cramp.
I was told they’d be getting worse
I came when you were born,
but soon the flying stopped.
By the time I came again,
we drove in private cars
By ALDO AMPARÁN
Is he a saguaro burning in the desert’s shadow—or a sidewinder’s tracks on sand—
Have I left footprints in the snow of his dreaming—
And if you have no coins or skyscraper,
then parachute from your mind into blossom,
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