Jay Nebel Sometimes I feel like a vampire. I’ve never come close to killing anyone but I have held my cock in my hands, unleashed it like a fire hose or basilisk, like a little boy’s metaphor for weaponry, and it was private and pleasurable as murder if you prefer that sort of thing. Tiberius… More


Jay Nebel Over blankets and sex, over money, the dog and goldfish, my wife and I are at war. We’re at war and the world’s at war, three of my neighbors angry at the local church, making signs, a high school classmate at war with the Feds, his brain a brilliant purple mass of PCP.… More

Shopping at Marshall Fields

Jay Nebel Stranded among the white pine and heartbreak of University Avenue in May, my wife leaves to search for a blouse. My chair surrounded by young bodies, twenty-year-old whips who will later slip out of the mall in their brand new cars and vanish into the isthmus, into houses lit in winter snow. They… More


Carl Phillips Maybe not ourselves, for once, but each other * Not the wilder doves; not their blurred machinery leaving the less wild doves behind Carl Phillips is the author of twelve collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Silverchest. His honors, among many others, include the Kingsley Tufts Award, the Theodore Roethke… More


Carl Phillips All the more elegant forms of cruelty, I’m told, begin with patience. I have practiced patience. As for piety being, to superstition, as what had seemed a fortress can be to not-a-fortress-in-the-end, at all: maybe so. — Why not move like light, reflected, across the snow? Carl Phillips is the author of twelve… More


Tarn Painter-MacArthur Memory is a cemetery I’ve visited once or twice, white ubiquitous and the set-aside Everywhere under foot… —Charles Wright Haar pours upstreet like a river in reverse, waterfalls the kirkyard gate where I wade through night’s small hours, over the plush quiet-and-still like a rug beneath my feet. Stone after stone the dark… More

New Grammar

Elyse Fenton I’m just at the beginning of the bell curve when teenagers turn the staticky bullhorns of their disbelief my way. I understand they is the new he or she like I understand the comeback of the fanny pack. One part bemusement, two parts derision, three parts stubborn resistance. This morning I stood under… More