Sejal Shah


She is the last of her siblings who is alive; Mother says she is tired. (Ba will never say she is tired.) Ba is my mother’s mother. …


Benjamin Landry

The air of a place takes doing. Not to mention the mistake of this morning, but mention it. Cut crystal. Might as well hold the rain back with two hands. There is no one in the bed upstairs, only a heavy square of sunlight going oblique where a redhead once was.

My Other Car Drives Itself

Bryan Hurt

In the nineteenth century, when Karl Benz pitched his car idea to investors, he tried to temper their expectations by telling them that demand would be limited because of lack of chauffeurs.…

Alice Oswald’s Memorial and the Reinvention of Translation

Mira Rosenthal

The idea that a translation inevitably interprets and rewrites its source poem is today a mundane assertion. The cultural dialog of the 1970s and 1980s, with its emphasis on translation as a process of negotiation and reactivation of cultural meaning, seems to have finally liberated poets from that old-fashioned notion of fidelity.…

Steep Ascension

Amit Majmudar

A last tercet reworked like a last will,
    he’d told me he was writing, feeling well,
        but I found his body turned to face the wall,

The Sphere of Time

Kris Faatz

Here is Thaddeus: a tall old man, stoop-shouldered and narrow-bodied. His fingers are swollen and mottled with age. His chest is hollow, fragile as a bird’s.…

Taking Pictures

Jeff McMahon

In a recent debate regarding arts funding, presented by New Dramatists in New York and organized by the playwright J.T. Rogers, economist Eric Helland noted that on a recent visit to MOMA he realized something startling; people were there to take pictures, not look at them.…

Generation B-ovine: Sam Byers’ Idiopathy

Jesse Donaldson

In the midst of the lingering global economic crisis, it has become common to find articles lamenting the future of the “Peter Pan generation”—those X and Y millenials who have put off marriage, jobs that include 401Ks, home-ownership, and child-rearing. …

From My Windows

William Fuller

I left the old granary for an extended trip and the rain fell and I was soaked through but continued vaguely to progress day after day, until at length I…

My Private Property

Mary Ruefle

It is sad, is it not, that no one today displays any interest in the art of shrunken heads. Men, women and children walk on streets, they cross fields and…

Flying Mexicans

Daniel Peña Garcia

There’s a corrido that says every boy’s death comes from his desire to be like his father. And then when the boy dies, he finally becomes a man. But let’s be clear—I really just died at sixteen and I died nothing like my father, just so you know.…

No Greater Darkness: A Review of In Time’s Rift

Sean Patrick Hill

Ernst Meister’s poems were often overshadowed by history: when he was first studying Heidegger and other thinkers whose ideas would inform his work, his native Germany was descending into fascism; his first collection of poems appeared the year before Hitler became chancellor. …

We Raised Them

Bryan Shawn Wang

They came to us freshly buffed, swaddled in striped hospital blankets, tucked inside clear plastic baskets atop metal carts. They appeared impossibly small. We lifted them out and cradled them and marveled at their miniature perfection, their darling fingers and toes and earlobes, their cherubic radiance.…

The Recovery Project Project

G. C. Waldrep

As an all-but-recovered social scientist with a PhD in history, I often find myself wondering just how the social system we associate with “poetry” works. There are the journals; there are the presses—large and small; there is AWP, think of it what you will.…

The Elements are Mixed in Childhood

Brenda Hillman

      Our mother was baptized on a kerosene box, our father was baptized in a creek, & we were baptized in a plaster pool while turquoise ripples played around our feet & desert air poofed up to make the long black robe a nylon buffalo. …


Eamon Grennan

From the Kenyon Review, New Series, Fall 1989, Vol. XI, No. 4 Mornings when I put the necessary sunblock on it’s always summer: sweet and greasy, a smell of summer…

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