Adelle Steals the Key To

By Kristina Marie Darling
September 2014

I carried our wedding china out to the dock, threw every goblet into the ocean.

My Father Gave the Neighbors

By Erez Bitton, translated from the Hebrew by Tsipi Keller
September 2014

my mother / unraveled both her eyes to the ravens

Some Otherside, Some Subterranean

By Nick Flynn
September 2014

Our guest poetry editor selects poems that sit on “the knife edge between what we call the everyday and what we call the night.”


By Garret Burrell, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
September 2014

Half of this / is an illusion. See here you / there is no place that does not from.

Late Style

By Graham Foust, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
September 2014

before she announced her arrival, she devoured it.

Guidebooks for the Dead

By Cynthia Cruz, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
September 2014

I could feel something bright / As it left the body.

Discrepancies Regarding My Mother’s Departure

By Rachel Eliza Griffiths, guest-edited by Nick Flynn
September 2014

It’s your turn, it’s always your turn, / the night says.

House-Sitting With Approaching Fire

By Idra Novey
August 2014

Dear friends / the ash-fall is thickening here

The Unfinished

By D. Nurkse
August 2014

When we returned by a pinprick in darkness / we found ourselves in childhood


By Mazen Maarouf, translated from the Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid and Nathalie Handal
August 2014

you’re nothing, / absolutely nothing, / but a Palestinian.

Ground Rules

By Simeon Berry
August 2014

Here, we always sell / the negatives for free.

Gate 134

By Peter Cooley
July 2014

What unnameable would throw this on the floor, / noon refracted through blue windows

You Blast Off, I’ll Drive

By Alison Smith
July 2014

We ferried into America on the pitch of the same folksong.

Temporary People

By Abigail Carl-Klassen
June 2014

Gin means you start down south and diesel / dye your stripper, that International Harvester, / through barbed wire


By Tommy Pico
June 2014

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
June 2014

Daughter, your mother’s prayer teeth would sharpen / and shred your opaque sack of sleep.


By Milorad Pejić, translated from the Bosnian by Omer Hadžiselimović
June 2014

We are resting from our courage.

Night Vision

By Benjamin Landry
May 2014

Our task was to set our sight / on the sightless part

Courtyard of the Most Embarrassing God

By Elizabeth Metzger
May 2014

The pelt, dead and bristling, / might guard me from death, / a city wet with the rain of better places.


By Brandon Courtney
May 2014

Fever wasn’t the only thing to break / in Cambodia

Bruno Sits on a Washing Machine

By Erica Ehrenberg
May 2014

the prairies are overrun with pioneer wives out of time / carrying rifles

This Is How You Beg

By Anna Rose Welch
April 2014

It should feel like you’ve rebuilt man / from woman’s most essential parts.


By Tatiana Oroño, translated from the Spanish by Jesse Lee Kercheval
April 2014

he was hoisted on the deck with his inheritance / of bones lowered in the berth


By Andrew Nance
April 2014

Good evening Secretary of the Interior Brain, glowing / wick of my infomercial light

I OBSERVED the acidic moisture

By Antonio Gamoneda, translated from the Spanish by Donald Wellman
April 2014

the vertebrae went down and already / I saw no more than eternity and coldness

Act Two

By Clay Matthews
March 2014

Only a flood could drown out / the light he still held inside.

You Can’t Tell the Truth

By Rebecca Gayle Howell
March 2014

We talk about leaving here as if / it’s walking out a door.

Wherever the nurse touches you

By Simon Perchik
March 2014

the way your blood here to there / drifts off course


By Sarah Crossland
March 2014

There is no word for emergency after the body / wilts.


By JoAnna Novak
February 2014

So Nurse, take mine, girl tabs and man cuticles, two fingers // to the wrist.

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