Salon Zine: All Poetry

By Seni Seneviratne Let me assume a pose that is suitably uncomfortable. There’s no obvious way to shift me from a life of necessary solitude,

By Nathan McClain there’s a bluebird, asleep, in the pokeweed, and we argue still— what’s pinched in its beak— a thread of red string, perhaps

By Cathy Linh Che In the car, phantom shadows. The moon was a sliver. The sun blared orange over the canyon, and I caught myself

By Stash Hempeck   as we each silently steal forward, stoop to pick up our rock, heft the angular stone up and down in our

By Erika Dreifus with thanks to Steven M. Lowenstein   My father’s parents were Germans, and they were Jews, and they were born long ago,

By Patricia Spears Jones What happens when you lose your taste For living things-a lover’s mouth The scent of her skin; his dark pubic hair

By Mike Stutzman Yes, yes, yes— the sandbags I have stacked, and the sheets of plywood nailed overlapping my storefront heart. I have made ready

By Bernadette McComish I am poured out like water, spilled onto the floor, soaked into wood. A terrible loneliness forces me to love a man

By Brie Huling There was no one here to tell me I was wrong. In taxidermy, you skin the animal first like removing the skin

By Brie Huling I’m hiding inside my vestibule of hearts today— among the lanceflower and sour purslane. I am a little millipede with antennas like

BY PRABHAKAR VASAN It is, again, unsafe. At least, it is unclear. animals, their dark forms when they crouch at the margins of the freeway

BY DIANE SCHENKER Now is the winter of our inevitable results, unavoidably determined by prior conditions. Essential? Absolutely. Logically. Required. Convention, on the other hand,

BY DIANE SCHENKER Consider housekeeping, consider the rain. Consider the fly dancing on the window. It herky-jerks its relentless heartbreak of trying to get out.

BY LUISA A. IGLORIA Everything returns to a source: gladness to the tree, fruit to the cradle, flesh from the bone. Water lashes the roofs

BY CHERYL BURKE Ever since the latest spot opened nearby, the limos leaked models onto the sidewalk, the guys in ties lined up the block,

BY STEPHANIE SHERMAN There were nights when the moon rolled down my nose, paused at my lip and slipped down Arévalo street. The children’s feet

BY CHING-IN CHEN Don’t know when it began, the vision. One by one, I let go. My husband calls me a crazy wife, bad mother,

BY CAROLINE BERGER Still a flare of anger an ache of loss a phantom limb feeling whenever she reads he the default pronoun striped of