MessengerBy Robin Beth Schaer
Religion in America: The choice left was to be lost. / I climbed cloud-high to answer.
God suspected my heart was a geode but he had to make sureBy Layla Benitez-James
Religion in America: good, God said, I took clouds and planted them / in soft, red clay.
The EasementBy Joshua Marie Wilkinson
to startle / one dead to what living’s no longer worth.
Hopper’s WomenBy Emily Carroll
she, standing there now with all the immodest strength / of a clapboard house, who has not even asked for this light.
Kafka Erases His Father With MoonlightBy Karen An-hwei Lee
Moonlight poured fiery poison into my life.
Said Gun SleepsBy Andrew Grace
I’d sleep against the wall in the unemployment line / next to men who slit throats in another country
In Which ForestBy Pierluigi Cappello, translated from the Italian by Todd Portnowitz
you gripped the axe’s handle, forever poised / to make a mark
LuzBy Laura Bylenok
If, in the church, there was blood / her blood was colorless
Elegy With AgencyBy W. M. Lobko
You can no more waterboard yourself / than sneak up on yourself at a party
the yearsBy Wendy Xu
where does dark begin settling / my little bones.
A Brief History of the Whale FisheryBy Rachel Richardson
American Empires: the body: / such thin skin / and gold beneath—
NachtmusikBy Danniel Schoonebeek
American Empires: If they sing will she barb them my love in her eating dress
Adelle Steals the Key ToBy Kristina Marie Darling
I carried our wedding china out to the dock, threw every goblet into the ocean.
My Father Gave the NeighborsBy Erez Bitton, translated from the Hebrew by Tsipi Keller
my mother / unraveled both her eyes to the ravens
Some Otherside, Some SubterraneanBy Nick Flynn
Our guest poetry editor selects poems that sit on “the knife edge between what we call the everyday and what we call the night.”
AdriftBy Garret Burrell, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
Half of this / is an illusion. See here you / there is no place that does not from.
Late StyleBy Graham Foust, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
before she announced her arrival, she devoured it.
Guidebooks for the DeadBy Cynthia Cruz, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
I could feel something bright / As it left the body.
Discrepancies Regarding My Mother’s DepartureBy Rachel Eliza Griffiths, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
It’s your turn, it’s always your turn, / the night says.
House-Sitting With Approaching FireBy Idra Novey
Dear friends / the ash-fall is thickening here
The UnfinishedBy D. Nurkse
When we returned by a pinprick in darkness / we found ourselves in childhood
DNABy Mazen Maarouf, translated from the Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid and Nathalie Handal
you’re nothing, / absolutely nothing, / but a Palestinian.
Ground RulesBy Simeon Berry
Here, we always sell / the negatives for free.
Gate 134By Peter Cooley
What unnameable would throw this on the floor, / noon refracted through blue windows
You Blast Off, I’ll DriveBy Alison Smith
We ferried into America on the pitch of the same folksong.
Temporary PeopleBy Abigail Carl-Klassen
Gin means you start down south and diesel / dye your stripper, that International Harvester, / through barbed wire
ThemsBy Tommy Pico
I say “and them” and mean / how in “the sticks” where I lived, the reservation, the mail / boxes were like maypoles at the end of the Earth
Refugee (Baghdad 2003)By Mia Leonin
Daughter, your mother’s prayer teeth would sharpen / and shred your opaque sack of sleep.
TongariroBy Milorad Pejić, translated from the Bosnian by Omer Hadžiselimović
We are resting from our courage.
Night VisionBy Benjamin Landry
Our task was to set our sight / on the sightless part