By SARAH J. ROGERS Ully Hirsch/Robert F. Nettleton Poetry Prize Runner-Up When I take the train to Pennsylvania it winds in at night, through those hills, past those porches Your dreams lit the fires of steel mills that now seem mere scenery, stubborn and decorative It tastes like slate and I still have nightmares. I lit my dreams on fire to […]
Archive for category: Poetry
By SARA JANSSON Academy of American Poets Prize Runner-Up In order to fall in love, you must tear yourself open And let everything fall to the ground, And allow another to sift through it. And you sigh and say, “This. This is me.” They will either delight in being elbow-deep in your life— Your problems, your fears, All of the […]
By SARA JANSSON Academy of American Poets Prize Runner-Up I only considered myself blessed By you, unchaste. I stopped believing in God the day you fucked a born-again Christian. (Haven’t they deemed that the ultimate sin?) For every looping fish that says “Jesus” on the bumper of a car, All I see are You two tangled in the backseat, Her […]
By JOHN HAROLD Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner I got highway dreams Stuck in Catholic traffic Streams of sun scream To a merciful dusk Warm ribbons of iron Tie a beautiful knot Which road do we take? I’m asking the dust Muscle and bone And leather and steel In the name of the father Lies the grave of the […]
By CRISTINA J. BAPTISTA Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner “‘The worst of sins is not to fall in love,’ said God, with the soft voice of a tango-singer.” José Eduardo Agualusa, The Book of Chameleons In Portugal, they call this season a figment of the imagination. It treads subtly, the dance of a hair falling down your back […]
By CRISTINA J. BAPTISTA Academy of American Poets Prize Co-Winner I. I am putting away the dinner plate for one, reaching into the too-high cabinet from the 1920s (this building is older than my grandmother, but she’s dead—both grandmothers are—so the comparison may make little or no difference, but there it is), and leaning while on tip-toes, over the chipped […]
Between blue shirts, white cuffs, gray bars, he takes our hands, our faces, our names. “…all of which feed into this control center housed in a secret location.”
It used to be that you could reach your arms down into the earth, even further than any child could dig on his way to China.
I am the white wash her, blending in with the walls.
a hint of warmth from a winter flame, this ember gasps with pulsing light.