Sahel Flower | Jean Guerly Petion Let me prayWith all my strengthWith all the strength of my heart and of my bloodFor this Sahelian land Six million Nomads marching onGnawed by hunger to the bellyTwenty
(for Steve Hiatt) Hold sleep, the certain knot of peace,you’ve found her—church supper, in eulogy, changingmoney in the narthex, buoyant, brightly unstringingcarnival tickets from a spool, marking tallies,stamping hands maybe, respectably engagingthe grinners come to
Ida Faubert —Translated from the French by Danielle Legros Georges O marvelous artist, O creator of dreams,To my soul your solitary soul spoke,And I followed you, a sweet and sad exile,In the far-flung lands where
Once again, I’m here at a hardware store, oddly inspecting at-attention shovels standing their platoon. Each shovel is in their designated cubbies and holes, one next to the other, like vertical coffins. Some appear homespun
On a misty September day in 1914, King George the Fifth, dressed in shooting gear, stands in a field at Windsor Home Park. He aims his hammer gun at a target several hundred feet away,
“Alexander and Bucephalus” by Victor Adam Lemercier You’re a foot soldier in the invincible Macedonian army. You are led by a man named Alexander who may be a god. But lumbering toward you on this
Already, he has worked like this for hours, moving his scythe beneath the gold horizon. There’s stillness here. There is the swirl of wheat,
On the way home, at Yaqoobi circle we hit that hard right angled turn and got the truck stuck like we have about a thousand other times. That turn always tricks somebody. We were working to clear the
Acrostic: Grandmother Mary and the Great War Could this be the river that burned?Under late summer’s waning moonyellow star-points of fireflies flashed onand off in evening’s mists, constellations rearranging themselves throughhaze high above avenue lamps
Battle Dress: PoemsBy Karen Skolfield (W. W. Norton & Company, 2019)Winner of the Massachusetts Book Award in Poetry At seventeen years old, Karen Skolfield joined the Army. For seven years she served as a journalist.
Armenian professors massacred by the Turks. From: Amēnun taretsʻuytsʻě : zbōsali u pitani. (1921) We made our way across the culvert. The few of us left who remembered digging it exchanged glances. The waters now flowed
In memoriam: Clementa Pinckney and eight others murdered at Mother Emanuel It’s only here where I’ve seen the surf crimping into ruffled-up petticoats, the edges of olive and indigo skirts of wave, of glance,
