By Elise Paschen
I dream us young, again,mother and daughter backon 69th Street insideour old brownstone—acrossfrom the church, patch of lawn—
a house neglected, wrecked,as if the familyhad been forced at gunpointto move away. In cornersdirt stacked like miniscule
Turn out the light and I’ll explain. —James Fenton
It’s where I’m headingIt’s what I overheardThe lines in the cornerThe flaming word.
It’s what you expectedYour greatest fearA chip in the teacupBills from last year.
By Martial, Translated by Tyler Goldman
Yes, I’m that Martial known all across the world for my elegiac couplets, hendecasyllables,
By Kay Ryan
You can oversellthe sea, say, orthe way we miss
It’s hard forthe mastersharpener afterall that workto have the shafttaken for the point.
By Bruce Snider
You have always been nosebleed and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls where you harvested us with your tribal clang. Too long we saw your face in every shadow, felt the whole forest await your arrival like a nagging frost.
All day I’ve followed roads. Have I come that far?Terre Haute, Greencastle. Kokomo’s not close, but not far.
By Fred Chappell
It was amusing to see The quick pet Sparrow and the Cat Engage in harmless duels that Exercised their friendly rivalry.
By Hilda (H.D.) Doolittle
In our Spring 1952 issue, we published three H.D. poems—“Sigil,” “Archer,” and “Scribe”—all of which were later included in her Selected Poems (1957).
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By Donika Kelly
Not that you ever are. The small, rough dogs lie at your feet or warm your belly.