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Scavenger Loop

“Who would I show it so unprocessed to—” David Baker rummages through dozens of texts, finding words for his mother’s death in an America of endless manufacture, modification and forestalled decay. NEW!

Antiphon

“It occupies me: this errand out of narrowness.” Christina Davis‘s slender lines send the self out in search of the world, “Thru self to arrive / at selves and thru selves / the self again—”

Until The Beast Was Slain

“repurposed      rubble erect / for these     dirt counties’ / mad whelps     reluctantly / the pity funds     trickle.” Adam Tavel reconstructs the horrors of the Wicomico County Almshouse, twice obscured.

The Night Grove

“The torturer wants to know how one minute blood, one minute / snow. ” In a room where “fictive or lesser / realities kept entering,” Kerri Webster encircles the ghosts of violence, tenderness, and fear.

from To Banquet with the Ethiopians

“He’d never seen the Iliad.” Irreverent and imaginative, Philip Brady sings of Homer’s first encounter with the alphabet.

Short Takes on Long Poems, Volume 6

David Micah Greenberg, Idra Novey, Robert Archambeau, Jee Leong Koh, Joshua Rivkin, Connie Voisine, Sophie Cabot Black, Carmen Gimenez Smith, Jill McDonough, Keith Ekiss and Sarah Blake weigh in (briefly) on their favorite long poems.

Short Takes on Long Poems, Volume 5

Joy Katz, Craig Morgan Teicher, Chris Tonelli, Joanne Diaz, Geffrey Davis, Erika Meitner, Ada LimĂłn, Dave Lucas, Rusty Morrison, Averill Curdy and Lisa L. Moore weigh in (briefly) on their favorite long poems.

Three Erasures

Scraping away at books from the World War II era in the Pacific, Collier Nogues exposes “the dark loud movements of war.”

The Deal

“My mother’s doctor tells me, here’s the deal / She has six months to live, a year at most.” In a poem whose tight form makes music of insufficiency, LeslĂ©a Newman tries to record the loss of her mother.

What is Death

“What does infinity look like? It hurts. // Its bodilessness hurts.” In Hartsdale, when “It’s no / longer possible for anyone to stop where she is,” Kathleen Ossip wonders her way into a poem of cycling, elastic, uncertain beauty.