The Prose Poem Issue

For the month of June, B O D Y will be presenting a selection of prose poems from our contributors in a special “Prose Poem Issue.” One of our...
Continue Reading

Michelle Penn

You tell yourself you’re immune, always, but then D appears, if not exactly out of the shadows then like a river of milk flooding the kitchen.

J. A. Bernstein

Water cress. Watercress. From the cognate in Middle Low German and Dutch. Waterkers. Pliny the Elder, in his History of the World—why aren’t there more books of this name—describes its roots as “effectual,” or so says the O.E.D.

Leonard Kress

it signifies some terrible and unwanted part of myself has been skillfully excised and that now it rushes off, most likely to be run over by a fully loaded tractor-trailer, screeching...

Chris Green

How hard the mountain tries to become the wind. How hard the wind tries to become a flame. How hard the flame tries to become a mountain. And the mountain, how it pretends not to notice the moon’s secret moves, what a torn moon rising from its mirror.

Justin Lacour

I’m not saying we both wake to a darkness and go to bed each night knowing we’ll wake to the same darkness the next day. I’m not saying that.

Sarah Anderson

Land stretches, lush and flooding, and a man rows a boat across a field into the night.

Matt W. Miller

Ought to put you over my knee. That tough love you never got from your damn fool daddy.

Claire Scott

I must have. Stolen cash from my boss. Torn the legs off a cat. Sworn at the Afro’d server who put pickles in my sandwich. How else explain my son. Who walks with a cane.

Jarvis Boggs

Somebody is up there, somewhere, looking down at us, also seeing us in pieces. We are like shadows passing among the roots of the trees. When we reach the other side, the world has changed.

Designed by B O D Y | Powered by Data3s