Three Prose Poems by Marc Vincenz
Unreclined at the peninsula’s end, a mile from the city where your feet become the night unveiling—too far to hear of the siege of cicadas where Sister’s coat lies perched against the dark... Read More
Three Prose Poems by Lee Min-ha, trans. from Korean by Jein Han
m is for my name, h is for your name my name, blue-backed snare, sharp oxygen, gasping for air I went to lustrous june’s fleshmarket to sell the apricot-colored uvula caught in my throat... Read More
Five Poems by Adam Day
Remembrances almost live,” all history at once,” itself alienated from cause effect.” Makes several centuries “simultaneously present,” while revealing a causal narrative in a sequence of construction... Read More
Now Spring, Now Fall by Bonnie Chau
Antelope shows me something handmade, but all I see are words that seem pulled from my own mind... Read More
Two Prose Poems by Christine Scanlon
if I cut this way, you circle in two. it hurts, the way lines are drawn. with color of dissent. if you have forgotten, it’s as if you break apart from being. retreat to your hym(n) section. then we parry on... Read More
Three Prose Poems by Yoo Heekyung, trans. from Korean by Stine Su Yon An
i am so very curious about the thing you said you’d planted and i wonder why you are so sick of such peonies, you who would have brushed off your hands loudly after planting them... Read More
Three Texts by Phoebe Glick
I looked into the center of an abstract painting and saw my own face, painted by someone who cared for me deeply. You were on the fence about whether you wanted to fuck the painting or one day become the painting. I reached over and touched your hand. It was wet, and you held mine... Read More
The Third by Claire Donato
There is no sequitur in the previous sentence, I realize. I got carried away by the sound of her head falling on the floor. Subsequently, I picked up the shards and rearranged them into a distorted portrait, through which I perceive a foreboding sense of self... Read More
Three Prose Poems by Sheila E. Murphy
Now I lay me dormant as a spot. The clock taps shoulder length and hairlines fracture plot. I think the story was a maze, and you, my inkblot, told the tale of me toute seule where I would whisper your soft name, the frame of it, the hemline brushing tile... Read More
Three Texts by Gabriel Blackwell
Fenollosa, whose invention was simultaneously Pound’s most intriguing and least faithful translation, writes that “no full sentence really completes a thought [because] motion leaks everywhere... Read More