By Iliana Rocha
ten mexicans are dead, left to suffocate in a trailer, discovered after the driver asked someone for a drink of water.
Crooked red fingers of stretchmark on her hips, dough Isabel kneads back into hips, magnolias in her hair, blossoming hips
Walking into the smell of old wounds, something about my grandmother’sbedroom always kept me from there—the perfumeonce animal golden now rancid & dark as whiskey. Lace-medallioned, doilies marking time turned to loss
More from this issue
By David Mason
This month's poster features a poem from David Mason. It appeared in our Spring 2013 issue on The Business of Literature. To download a high-resolution PDF of this image, click here.
By Victoria Chang
This month's poster features a poem from Victoria Chang. It appeared in our Fall 2012 issue on The Female Conscience. To download a high-resolution PDF of this image, click here.
By William Baer
"Tracking Shots," from our Winter 2013 issue on Classic Hollywood.
More Online Poetry
By Claire Schwartz
By John S. Sledge
By John Freeman