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

Meditation of a Foot Soldier Nearing Medusa’s Sculpture Garden

Matthew Olzmann So these are the monuments. And these are the faces of the inevitable. And if I am made one of them, rendered motionless, made marble by the gorgon’s stare, then help me celebrate the abrupt tombstone my torso becomes. I’ve never been this far from home. I’ve never lifted my arms above my… More

The Dinosaurs of My Youth

Elyse Fenton Keep coming back with new configurations of armor and bone, feathers for scales, car- nivorous accessories glinting a fine digital light. Already I miss the Mesozoic, the era before the meat eaters’ gamesmanship when dinosaurs were the size of chickens cowering in bull rushes and tar pits and all it took to rule… More

Rumors of War

Daniel DeVaughn For years, I hadn’t seen or heard from Kevin Moon. He shot me once, in mid-summer, a shining bead of lead or copper—whatever kind of metal is mined for boys forced out of doors into the world— lodging in my thigh like the seed of some future violence. We’d wrestle in the waxing… More