From Traci Brimhall’s “The Unverifiable Resurrection of Adão da Barco,” a poem in the current issue:
First, a tourist finds a poem in the leper colony,
carved in a kapok, ants swarming sap in the cuts.
Then a fisherman uncovers instructions for a rain dance,
an usher discovers recipes for the jubilee.
A riverboat captain comes to town and leads them
to a tree in the north describing the mating habits
of the marabunta, to one in the south with an ode to plums.
From Jake Adam York’s “Self-Portrait as Superman (Alternate Take),” in the current issue:
[read more]At twenty-four frames per second, sixty seconds is two hundred
feet of film you’ll never see: Christopher Reeve
ready to become mild-mannered Clark Kent—sharptrilby and blue chalk-pinstripe suit—
once they call Action, the Who-me smile fading
to bit-lip circumspection, cover story and secret,hand on the button-down’s placket, ready to pull
the buttons from their eyes, peel
the rough-hewn cotton from the ancient crest, the S
From Jennifer Grotz’s “Listening,” in the current issue:
Water turns everything into a jewel
then puts a metal taste in the mouth
slowly replaced by dust. Which is why standing
in the rainy street you feel much richer than you are. Or, aware that everything will dry, much poorer.
You feel that way anyway in New York, and a little lost,
but let’s be honest, that’s what you want, to hide,
and like an owl, you’ve retreated not to high branches
but an anonymous skyrise.
From Brendan Grady’s “Moths,” in the current issue:
[read more]We know the moths circling the porch light,
the dolt among them breaking orbit,
dusty Icarus drawn to his demise.This isn’t new, but seventeen others
stuck on the wall have turned their wings
against it, like stoics, as if the light isn’t light,and if they move, it is only a slight flutter,
a twitch of motion, before they still again.