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Ewa Lipska (translated from the Polish by Aga Gabor da Silva)
You can always become a worse breed of pigeons. A traitor to the motherland.

journal

The Massachusetts Review

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Michael Palmer
Will the fires yes the fires will consume us. We will scatter our own ashes, scatter them in a spiral between lake and sky, cadmium yellow sky.

book

New Directions

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Taylor Johnson
Young buck tapping its velvet against the bathroom window in the morning. The land leaning in the pines . . .

book

Alice James Books

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Sanna Wani
In a daisy field. In a garden. In a graveyard, in the sun, its valley. In the sound of nothing. Your mother and father, two trees in the distance. In the distance. In the sound of the whistle, someone banishing you again.

journal

The Puritan

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Rosie Stockton
what if we kissed in the Amazon locker? crude oil massage, your hand lotion on my choke points your most fresh sacrifice boxed like Blue Apron

book

Nightboat Books

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Jaswinder Bolina
They wanted other people’s transit and squalor. They’d been prepping for years in unincorporated Atlanta when a job-call lit up their scopes.

journal

Couplet Poetry

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Liz Howard
The value in a dead woman is that she cannot be killed again or cross-examined. The value in being the dead woman at trial is the Crown doesn't represent you regardless.

book

McClelland & Stewart

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Sara Lupita Olivares
you can see only the shape of the red-billed pigeon                 in the bathroom window, opaqueness a distance the yard repeats.

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The University of Arkansas Press

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S*an D. Henry-Smith
your hand at its heaviest is still a gentle wind ushering a sharp delivery sharp intellect sharp sensitivity to the order & disarray. you make me weep w/ the weather w/ the weathered w/ the mothered w/ the memory.

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FuturePoem

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