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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
Feature Date
- August 4, 2021
Series
- Translation
Selected By
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
Feature Date
- August 3, 2021
Series
Selected By
Taylor Johnson
Young buck tapping
its velvet against the
bathroom window in
the morning. The land
leaning in the pines . . .
book
Alice James Books
Feature Date
- August 2, 2021
Series
- What Sparks Poetry
Selected By
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
Feature Date
- August 1, 2021
Series
Selected By
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
Feature Date
- July 31, 2021
Series
Selected By
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
Feature Date
- July 30, 2021
Series
Selected By
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
Feature Date
- July 29, 2021
Series
Selected By
Sara Lupita Olivares
you can see only the shape of the red-billed pigeon
in the bathroom window, opaqueness
a distance the yard
repeats.
book
The University of Arkansas Press
Feature Date
- July 28, 2021
Series
Selected By
Nora Claire Miller
A visual poem by Nora Claire Miller
journal
ctrl + v
Feature Date
- July 27, 2021
Series
Selected By
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.
book
FuturePoem
Feature Date
- July 26, 2021
Series
- What Sparks Poetry
