Ansuya Patel

      I Cast Out Everything except this burnt red vase. Hand shaped in the muffled roar, devouring flame in the furnace’s mouth. Sand becomes skin of light. Its glass body trembles like a sea animal remembering its salt. I hold the lagoon’s sigh,...

Hannah Ward

      Under The Plum Tree Look, Drew, the plums are in pieces beneath us. I dreamt: you let the sweet ones rot at the bottom of your pocket, sagging like the canopy. Hannah is thirty feet long in a field of dandelions, waving...

Andrea Small

      Night Out a flower is not a heron does not stand on one leg spear-billed over golden carp does not rise on wide wings neck curving into the blue flight like a slow heartbeat a heartbeat is not a flight does not lift a wary body translate a girl...

Usha Kishore

      Chant after Ammar Aziz At dawn and dusk, my father becomes a chant, that flies above the courtyard of the old house by the river, where only the men recite Sanskrit prayers by lamplight, as though in a divine trance, to Gayatri, consort of the...

Jane Frank

    Wake The leaves are a colour you’ve never seen but that I will learn to expect and there’s a fracas-induced full moon, clouds beneath like soot from giant candles. I woke up and the time ahead was missing like Notre Dame’s gothic power and the spots gone...

Clara Howell

      The Basement  The way a halved peach breathes, then rots from the inside out. Her tongue, a swollen garden of secrets. The corners of her eyes reach toward her burning shoulders.     Clara Howell is a poet born and raised in the Pacific...