Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


How to Forget a River

M.K. Foster

Why hide? To be found. Why be found?


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Seasonal Without Spring: Summer

Andrés Cerpa

Was that season artery or vein? when the days stretched like Broadway, & the nights undid our shirts – the temperature so slight you could raise your arms in flight & feel nothing, the body as air. But there was also the need for hurt. And dusk: a ghost of a boy tempted to feel his weight, to put his palm to the depth, touch the pupil, the dead turbine of god’s one good cataracted eye.

The Progress

Geoffrey Nutter

This is where the wheel is broken at the cistern / and the weeds of dandelion rise to over six feet tall, / their star-shaped heads not yet in blossom.

Ghost Fire

Doug Ramspeck

The old men are unsure. Something is twisting up and up to become a stair. And what is the end for? Who would stop here and dream such accumulations? Once…

Canto II: A Translation

Brian Diamond

Hang it all Yankev Glatshteyn! / There can be but the one Fairfax / but Fairfax and my Fairfax— / Impulsn fun gedank / blitskike un rashik...

From the Archives

Artificial Flower Garden

Sara McGuirk

excuse me this chambray tie / this cummerbund, these plain chops, / these dull lips. I’ve no guilt for gild's sake.

On Seeing

Robin Romm

            Recently, I was talking to my friend, Camas, at a party when the subject of our college admittance essays came up. I haven’t done a lot of…

Playing Kong

Kerry Neville

You know where this is going: Danny lives across the street, house number 32-25 to my 32-26, and he is eight years to my seven;

Former Reunion

Katherine J. Lee

I thought letting him go quietly would be too much like letting myself get hustled off a cliff. He could kill me with those shrugs. Then there was screaming,…

From the Blog

Travels with Steve, and Good Writing

My old friend and former teacher Steve Orlen and I walked many miles together along the wide avenues of Tucson, Arizona. Our promenades usually took place…

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.