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When we moved with our first newborn / into this ’70s raised-ranch house, / I pretended some benevolent ghost / could soothe him.

At Alice and Henry’s farm, it is time to mate the sows. Henry even bought a home pregnancy test for them—it is inserted into the vagina and simply beeps, with maddeningly little explanation, if it judges them to have conceived.

Of course they sing—/ we have given them / no other verb.

By the time we finalized the layout for Ara Oshagan’s photo essay about the Armenian diaspora in Lebanon, his decade-long project comprising memoir and documentary, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was underway, with horrific consequences.

that color is not color. The red flower, / she tells me, absorbs all light / but red, so reflects red / where she and I can see it.

Slow down. Put away the cream and sugar. Savor this drink by itself. So I begin my sensory coffee-brewing class.

Reconciling What a Son Remembers

Here’s a lesson: If you leave a hole in the forest, / leave a mouth open in pain, astonishment or grief, / something will come to fill it

No light could work its way into Kelsey’s condo after four, so that’s when she held the baby and checked email. She never received much.