Three poems from Repeater

Michael Peterson

[One summer you suppose]

One summer you suppose another summer
      will be ransomed—at last—
the stark-rocking maple now willfully green,
      the house like a boat like a house,
its old anthem stolen back from obliteration,
      incredibly redeemed by a throat—

Four Boston Basketball Stories

Brian Doyle

Chirping & Warbling

I have written here and there about the time when I played in a basketball league in Boston that was so tough that sometimes guys driving to the hole lost fingers, and one time a guy driving hard to the basket got hit so hard his right arm came off, but he was lefty and hit both free throws, but there are about one million other stories from that league,

Unclassifiables: A Tour of Books on My Bed Stand

Peter Selgin

My eighth grade English teacher was a man named Proudfoot, but we all called him Bob. By 1971, Bethel, Connecticut, standards, Bob was a radical. He wore his blond hair long, with bell-bottomed blue jeans and square-toed Frye boots. This didn’t sit well with parents and administrators, but his students loved him.…


John Kinsella

Two-stage rocket with capsule equals: two forty-four gallon drums, the side of a packing case, fencing wire, switches from an old country telephone exchange, wooden fruit boxes and a pram…

So Many Birds to Kill and So Few Stones

Jay Hopler

How can a man who owns so little owe so much?

It rains for a while and then it doesn’t. The phone rings. The pipes rattle. A breeze blows and the house settles. And when the cocks come, frugging and a’strut, their gaudy plumage plashing brash against a backdrop of blocked-up cars and vacant lots and bank-owned cottages, their doors knocked heavy-off-the-hinge, one cannot help but flattened be by the persistence of the beautiful thing even in the face of that which will ultimately consume it.

Moses’ Son: Adam Levin’s Hot Pink

Jensen Beach

On every page of his short story collection Hot Pink, his second book, Adam Levin can be found experimenting, fixing, inventing—to great effect. In “Frankenwittgenstein” Mike’s father struggles to perfect “Bonnie: The Beautiful Body-Action Doll for the Self-Body Image-Enhancement of Toddling and Preadolescent Girls at Risk.™”…


Frank X. Gaspar

I wanted to show her the dawn
coming up over Truro, I wanted
the sky pulled down
like crepe after a dance.

Death of a Frog; You, Without Shoes

Zilka Joseph

Death of a Frog

—Philautus Maia, first and only specimen ever to be found, circa 1860, in Sri Lanka

I. Maya: Illusion

And who were your ancestors,
your glossy little children, lone
ghost of the emerald


Robert Kostuck

Maybe it’s the possibility of free elections in Poland. Ariel arrives in Podlaskie Voivodeship midsummer, 1988; a few more kilometers to the east and you’re in the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist…

The Blues: A Craft Manifesto weekend-reads

Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

The first slave ship landed on the shore and an African disembarked, meeting her fate. A couple of centuries and some change later, that slave’s great-great-great- and too-many-greats-to-mention descendants toted sacks down cotton rows, looked up at that fiendish sun. Bore the sacks up again.

Loyal Order Of

Nance Van Winckel

Butte, MT 1927

The sky’s traffic is cumulus, but not too.
Our elk’s an arch across Main. Eighty feet high
and just as wide. Beneath its copper-gilded withers
pass boys with tubas, teen twirlers, wreathed
ponies, and the miners’ widows—in turn
and on time. Elk of extended thanks.

weekend-readsA Matter of Course

Mabel Yu

Of course, she sat next to me. The woman started with little hisses, meek sips of air as her breathing quickened. In the window’s reflections, I could see her sulking…

Thunder Moon

Nathaniel Perry

No moon tonight, but aren’t you tired of hearing
about these things, the crutch I’ve strung these notes
along? Either way, there is no moon; it finally

rained. The heat’s not broken yet, but still,
a summer sky-river made its way to us
at last. . . .


Ilan Stavans and Harry Morales

Translated from Spanish by Harry Morales He woke up early. He had had a bad night. The white bed sheets were hot and wrinkled and he had an Apache Indian…

The Siege of Sarajevo, July 1992

Timothy Kenny

The siege of Sarajevo ran from April 1992 to February 1996. Of the estimated 10,000 civilians who died 1,500 were children; 56,000 people were wounded. Slobodan Milosevic, Radovan Karadzic and…


William Carlos Williams

First Published in The Kenyon Review, Summer 1948, Vol. X, No. 3 In the center, above the basin, the mirror. To the left of it the Maxfield Parrish, Ulysses at…

weekend-readsYou’re Not Going to Die

Kelly Magee

Franny fought the gridlock on I-Drive for an hour only to arrive at the Palmscape Funerarium too late—seven-thirty, the viewing had ended at seven. Instead of a funeral party she…

Mid-Day Sunrise

Michelle Boisseau

The preposterous rouses us.

Cardinal in a hardware store,
cupcake in a sock drawer.

The clown was on her way to work.
On offer was another portion

of winter’s tin entrenchment.
Sobbing shrubs, streets empty

It Was the Summer

Madeline McDonnell

It was the summer I thought I was pregnant. The summer we moved to the city. Some people hoe their hair into crop lines and say, “Why would you bring…

The Capital World: Geoffrey Nutter’s Christopher Sunset

Dan Chelotti

Thomas Merton claimed that “there is in all visible things an invisible fecundity, a dimmed light, a meek namelessnes, a hidden wholeness.” Geoffrey Nutter’s poems accept this proposition, and try very hard to reveal this hidden wholeness—not by questioning the meaning of things, but by striving to see past the very stuff of the world.…

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