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Poetry 8.3

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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 This story is sepia stuck to a photograph. The smell of burnt sugar every baking...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 —after Rene Magritte You’ve collapsed the atlas but salvaged the dove, and prettied the concave...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 is not single celled, but a colony and trees bent in light leaving from their...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 I didn’t tell you it would be intense. This feeling of fire and rivets flailing....
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 Upon waking, I remembered the flowers: dried stems, wilted bouquets, their leaves like dead insects under...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 The dream seemed almost real: chrysanthemums, an empty house, and the relatives all standing outside waiting. Around...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 They’ve got a center down on Wilson so we see them all the time. There’s...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 The ice on the pool in the backyard is melting, the water green like the...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 Three-year-old girl in the arms of her mother squints against the sun, rays dull against...
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Poetry, Vol. 8.3, Sept. 2014 This morning, tulips explode, like that spring your mother lay dying when the first bright...
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