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American poetry

Elegy

By Chanda Feldman

Gathered in the yard, shed-side, pokeweed,
black walnut, pecan tree all leafed and
umbrellaing. My grandmother, the relatives

Election Day

By Chanda Feldman

No one picked in the fields on Election Day.
The trucks drove us to a picnic on the Bluff.
The children sang songs like it was Sunday.

The Pillage

By Jill Bialosky

Time passes
into the limbs of the boys
on the field stretching

Witness This

By John Freeman

Every April we unsheathed sofa cushions from their glassy wrappers,
perched tea on our laps, and became an audience for his four-decade

Return

By John Freeman

I went back to the city
we visited, to
the restaurant that

Reconstruction

By Brian Sneeden

They put their guns in the only boxes
that they had, and those the well-
liquored strips of gin barrels

Anarcha: J Marion Sims Opens My Body for the Thirty-Fourth Time

By T J Jarrett

I am not yet dead. Do not call this miracle or raise your hands in praise. First,
you should know how long I prayed, and how I came to know the silence of the Lord.

1973: My Mother Cleaves Herself in Two

By T J Jarrett

I am born. I dream the nightroom of your body,
and in that place, you sing, build me of words

Late That Summer

By T J Jarrett

That summer night, we gathered again around the table,
drinking with all the bugs that lit up and some that didn’t.
When Mike said: I wonder how my ex-wife is doing

Theodore Bilbo Attends My Sickbed

By T J Jarrett

When the ache was just too much, I’d skip
down the hill to the slip where you
and a small boat were always waiting.

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