Author’s note: This poem is part of a series of poems I wrote based on the life of Fred Astaire, who was a complex yet sincere and caring man. In this poem, I especially wanted to show his empathy for the men who served in World War II, specifically those who had been...
In June, the apricot tree saggedwith squat fruit that fell splat on the sidewalk. Children jumped for the velvet orbsBy mid-July, all had disappeared.All, except juice stains on concrete. As if no velvet, no fruits, no children...
Editor’s Note: We’re so excited and honored to be publishing this excerpt from Alexandria Peary’s long poem, “The Pforzheim Quartet,” which engages with history and memory through the use of extraordinary language, image, and sound. When we on...
Identified by Unique Manicure Author’s Note: this poem was written in response to this image—created by Oana Maria Cajal—which is both about the war in Ukraine and part of a collaboration project titled “Shattered.” Neptune Beach, 315 miles from...
Peabody museum closed for renovations, March of 2020 by Callie S. Blackstone https://consequenceforum.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/03/peabodymuseum.mp3 We met under the octopus, tentacles suspended over us,gathering us in. I will return here over and overafter the war...
Clocks will still mark time. Only speechesby the president under siege will sound true. Bombedcities that refuse to fall will be decimated. Spring will stallas if waiting for war to end before it can arrive.Monuments will stand, protected by sandbags,as children cry....
It’s everywhere today; the wildfire of helicopter blades, what you hearwhen the furnace kicks on, a beggingvoice and an airstrike of unholy smiles.But it’s not something you could tell your sisteras she accidentally pours raspberry iced tea over your hands; the black...
for Dan Ryan After we spoke of the dead at Giờ Linh and Cồn Thiên, I thought of the bird that came to nest ina dead tree; the deep rhythm, melody as she built it stick by stick, bringing mud and wet leavesand bits of paper to mortar it into place; the exquisite...
―with Uche Ezenwa-Ohaeto Something sits on my heart like night sits on day:A verdant lush too heavy to pass through my throat.In one night, rivers redden where bone-rubble, limbs float.Here, mother is a name for a woman whose children do not return home after...
Now that you have decided to stayaway, I have given up finding the quietgestures that lie behind us. What matterscannot just be found in corners of what wasonce your home. I have muted your imprintin the last photograph we took as the plumeof dawn washed over us and...
