*poetry by Campbell McGrath* From curiosity comes dynamism, from obstinacy drive.
From the drawing board, from tinkering, from the machine shop in the old barn come pistons and cams.
“Henry Ford (1904),” by Campbell McGrath Read More »
*poetry by Campbell McGrath* From curiosity comes dynamism, from obstinacy drive.
From the drawing board, from tinkering, from the machine shop in the old barn come pistons and cams.
Holiness
is a word I love to hear,
it sounds like wings to me,
wings brushing the world, grazing my life.
“First Choral Ode of Bakkhai,” by Anne Carson Read More »
Holiness
is a word I love to hear,
it sounds like wings to me,
wings brushing the world, grazing my life.
Supermen sleep in transit every time—
no guarantees of when we’ll sleep again, or if,
so we tuck chin to flak jacket and light out
for anywhere else. We wake bitter and panicked,
plane dropping too sharply for Stinger missiles, look up,
read the taut, terrible smiles.
Excerpts from “Our War” Read More »
Supermen sleep in transit every time—
no guarantees of when we’ll sleep again, or if,
so we tuck chin to flak jacket and light out
for anywhere else. We wake bitter and panicked,
plane dropping too sharply for Stinger missiles, look up,
read the taut, terrible smiles.
INTERSTICE
1. Between Grief and Sorrow
Grief staggers around the house
some thief has emptied.
It wants to tell you everything
all over again; blame is the story
grief hammers, hammering until your leg shakes,
your right foot won’t stop tapping.
It’s a dance for the shaken,
strung out with waiting, and now look
who’s back to guard the door:
Poetry by Cleopatra Mathis Read More »
INTERSTICE
1. Between Grief and Sorrow
Grief staggers around the house
some thief has emptied.
It wants to tell you everything
all over again; blame is the story
grief hammers, hammering until your leg shakes,
your right foot won’t stop tapping.
It’s a dance for the shaken,
strung out with waiting, and now look
who’s back to guard the door:
ONE DAY THE DOCTOR TELLS YOU YOU’RE BLIND
to the truth. It’s physical; something about
the retina, rods, and cones. Truth is a wave-
length in the spectrum you’re unable to detect.
All your life you’ve been compensating,
convincing yourself you could see what you
could not. Suddenly you’ve got questions
Poetry from Todd Boss Read More »
ONE DAY THE DOCTOR TELLS YOU YOU’RE BLIND
to the truth. It’s physical; something about
the retina, rods, and cones. Truth is a wave-
length in the spectrum you’re unable to detect.
All your life you’ve been compensating,
convincing yourself you could see what you
could not. Suddenly you’ve got questions
