Michael Collier

Michael Collier

  MEADOW   Moments that were tender, if I can use that word, now rendered in memory’s worn face, have names attached and, less...
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Michael Collier

Michael Collier

That’s how he looked this morning, / a thrashing, fissured monument / pecked by birds that nominate his skin

Gerkensmeyer

Sarah Gerkensmeyer

A unicorn comes trotting up the lane. The woman keeps whistling. Her husband comes trotting up the lane. Her ex-husband comes trotting up the lane. Her two dead husbands come trotting up the lane. She whistles. A sycamore tree, its bark mottled and smeared and beautiful, comes trotting up the lane.

Chad Simpson 2

Re: Word: Chad Simpson

There’s this thing everyone learns when they’re kids about how a single part of the human body stays the same size from the time we’re born until we die. For a long time, up until I started looking each day at those photos of Casey, I forgot which body part it was. I knew it was somewhere in the face, but that was it.

Photo: Casey Curry

Re: Word: Natashia Deon

I am dead. I died a nigga a long time ago. Before you were born, before your mother was born, ‘fore your grandmother. I was seventeen. Still am I reckon. And everyone that was there that night is dead now too so it don't matter that I was a nigga. Or a slave.

Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

At the top of the hill in the forest at night we are standing face to face as the moon wavers behind a small cloud and when I say no to the baby he pulls a gun and shoots me in the stomach.

White

Ross White

The Lord is my shepherd, / I shall not want. I shall give want over // to the goats. The Lord shall tie a bell / around my neck.

Chad Simpson

Chad Simpson

"The job’s highly preferable to dishing out slop in the cafeteria, but there’s this woman, she hands me the list of names each day that admissions wants me to call. This woman is destroying my heart. Her name is Donna."

Tarfia Faizullah

Tarfia Faizullah

It must have looked soft to her. That soft. Blacker still, / in Jesus-stained light. Mother gray in fluorescent light, / shaking chopped onions and garlic into the sweating pot.

Photo: Casey Curry

Natashia Deon

I am dead. I died a nigga a long time ago. Before you were born, before your mother was born, ‘fore your grandmother. I was seventeen. Still am I reckon. And everyone that was there that night is dead now too so it don't matter that I was a nigga. Or a slave.

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