Poetry - Year II - Number 8 - July 2017

    SACRIFICEBy Georgia Eugenides    THE SUMMER I NEVER HADin the morningi search for myself everywhere,under ivory sheets that smell of cinnamon, between porcelain jarson the highest kitchen shelf and among blue, crossed outpoems in my notebooki...

A SIMPLE PROPOSITIONBy Evyn McGraw  WakeWith twisting muscles I whippedMy body into shape,I ran like a machine,Pumping down the pavement through the dead winter wood,When water’s whisper hissedMy name. The call led me off the path,Into...

NOW I SEEBy Mignon Ariel King Chifforobe Daddy had one, so when its three tones of art-deco woodcreaked open on tiny black hinges to emit a breath of cedar,I fell in love. I could see the...

POEMAS DE MICHAEL SPRINGTraduzido por Maria João Marques surrealista no tempo não há mais árvorespara arrancar do seu corpo de cada buraco espreita um olhocomo um amanhecer inteiro atraindoenxames de relógios e ponteiros fecha os olhos e torna-se nada...

WHO AM IBy Emily Eigenheer I Am My Own Army My name is not singular,It is not a single entity,Rather a collection of names that have been acquired over time.I come from two very different people,The...

FISHING LOCK NESSBy Samuel W. James  Fishing Loch Ness the stones are cool grey or hairy brown;the water barely darkens themfor yards and yards out we argue about how deep it is,though it could certainly hide a...

OFF-BEATBy Julianna Bjorksten AT SMALLS On the night of starry time-bomb and twinkling blunderCaught in the stagnant bulk of two page compositions and futile coffee treksShared sheets and tender televisionWas a moonlit crater —a plungeunexplored I slipped...

WITH HERBy Judah Cricelli  Three is few,One is two, Her crease, and hue,The halogen flickers when I amWith her.Drips with dew,Mud-freckled shoe,Scuffed knees, hers too, The playground goes silent when I am With her. Carpet is soft, An ocean of...

HIGH PLACE PHENOMENONBy Hailey Cragun High Place Phenomenon Along the red cliff sidewith staggering ten story dropswe cling to a chain, silver and black,its mark worn into the stone. The August sun warms the sandstonewhen my hand,...

HALF IRON, HALF OAKBy Simon Perchik  *Half iron, half oak, the bedall night honed on what went wrong–it’s an axe, striking upside down though you sleep facing northside by side an empty dressshaped into bulls and...