By Ama Codjoe
after Romare Bearden’s Patchwork Quilt (1969)
My back is turned from him again, but this time I’m not hunched over the quilt—his rough thumbs gripping my waist—I’m standing
Three nudes crudely drawn. One crouching,
back turned, right hand feeding the turtle
of the painting’s title; another sitting, as if in a chair,
head bowed, eyes downcast; and a central
By Airea D. Matthews
Digging in dregs of trashto find the bird my father neededto get well, I tore a vanishing line across the length of my palm.
More from this issue
By Beth Bachmann
Time is the distance between birth and death. Parallel universes appear in real time on your screen. Place is an illusion. For instance, I am in the Palace of Versailles.
Rats can laugh, but the dogs aren’t smiling: they’re hooked on oxytocin, which rises when we lock eyes with one another. Oxytocin is not dissimilar to OxyContin, an opioid analgesic which can result in a similar sense of euphoria or attachment.
Your heart is like an island, like a bomb chambered for containment and you should handle my heart like a rare species of flower that grows only here, like a thing that can destroy.
More Online Poetry
By Claire Schwartz
By John S. Sledge
By John Freeman