Ana Pugatch
I cup the frozen
body of evening,
trace the lines
that creep along
the beetle's velvet
shell.
from the book
Engrams: Seven Years in Asia /
Redhawk Publications
In our series Language as Form, we asked poets to write about poetic language as patterned language—how words as sound, voice, sentence, and song become elements of form.
- September 21, 2023
Afaa M. Weaver
We count our wishes, to be free,
to be at ease, to be in abundance.
Above us spirits whirl in a thunderhead
- September 20, 2023
Carlie Hoffman
There must be a word for the lack
of words for the things we have felt all...
- September 19, 2023
Elisa Gonzalez
My little brother was shot, I tell the barista who asks how things
have been,
and tip extra for her inconvenience. We speak only
to the dead, someone tells me— to comfort, I assume, or inspire,
- September 18, 2023
Michael Dumanis
Am always arabesquing after Abigails. Am always afraid: an affliction?
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