Today’s choice
Previous poems
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 Northwest. Clara finds poetry as an opportunity to connect the ordinary with the extraordinary by putting her most honest and raw experiences on the page. Clara’s work has been previously published in Shot Glass Journal (Muse Pie Press), Anti-Heroin Chic, Cathexis Northwest Press, Route 7 Review and The Orchards Poetry Journal.
Susie Wild
The Liminal Hours A chase of messages illuminates my screen through the small hours. Did I just see you? I’m sure I glimpsed you dancing, that green dress, the way you tilt your head to admire the view. These banshee hauntings my poor abandoned...
Myriam San Marco
The Cure I knew what my poison was I drank to more than enough I drank like drinking would give answers to questions I haven’t asked yet I built a cage out of the pieces of my bad self binding steel plate to hollow bones fusing old scars to fresh...
Jennie Byrne
Mute like attracts want – want ignites desire I wake up and my entire life has passed - I’m old and frail, limbs rigid, my breath appears in small puffs they’ve already chosen my gravestone, a chunk of fieldstone – small but quaint except it bore...
Kat Holmes
“GOTHS AREN’T BLACK” BUT YOU’D STARE ANYWAY, AND I CAN SMOKE TREE BOP ON THE CORNER TO BLACK METAL OR BASHMENT, IN PLATFORM BOOTS OR NIKE BLAZERS BECAUSE I AM STILL THE ONLY SPECTACLE IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD. IT IS BRAIDS KNOTTED INTO NOOSES,...
Tré Ventour
Man-Made For the victims and survivors of male violence and the system that enables it. CW: rape, sexual violence, police brutality, genocide, racism. Raised by West Indian matriarchs I was taught by Black women about whiteness and patriarchy where women...
Madelyn Burnhope
Blessing at Arms' Length a setting-down ritual I can’t begin to speak a blessing any more than I can reach a coat hanger from my chair. I only know how to say come in, welcome, dear Brigantia, into the home of my hand, my heart, my hesitation....
Rose Knapp
Commodity Fetishization Buy buy buy consume consume consume Faster faster faster harder harder harder Deeper deeper deeper devour devour devour Rose Knapp (she/they) is a poet and electronic producer. She has publications in...
David Hay
Jobcentre Blues The nights are full of broken sky sirens– of 2,000 stabbings and sexless promises– of hot dog food-banks, and either coffee or tea or pasta or rice. Do you have a cooker or a microwave sir? No, I sold it in that withering...
Rakaya Fetuga
Winter Blossom Does your laughter feel like winter blossom? A fog of petals in your lungs, forcing joy a season too soon. I don't know the taste of your grief. Maybe it is a damaged earth, the world offbeat and threatening. But in this spring...