For months, small gold crowns have fallen from the sky.

Her body and mine are the same shape. By reason, this means mine can be touched. I still can’t stomach it.

After death the heart sometimes keeps beating / a little. Or after it’s removed / from the body.

My Jewish wife and I / went into the Old City / through Damascus Gate / to eat sweet orange squares of knafeh.

I’ve never worked at a fish processing plant, but I’ve met a few people who have.

I was shimmying on stage, apoplectic in the harsh blue neons, when I remembered I have loved you my whole life.

Carolyn Hembree’s For Today is a triumph of Mississippi Delta poetry.

As an undergraduate at NYU, Daniel Lefferts found mythical beings: students at the Stern School of Business. They eschewed the de rigueur American Apparel hoodies and skinny jeans in favor of Patagonia vests, khakis.

I thought I was undesirable. Unlovable, sounding / Just like a Bachelor lead, with way less privilege, not / Kissing generically gorgeous ladies in Forever 21 gowns.

When the water recedes, a flock of / small stones appears along the shore

It’s not the first time / someone did wrong, and you / smelled your blame

Foxes keep showing up. Their voice contains a baby crying at night.

Who you are, what made me assent—all I know’s I was hopeful and bored / reposing in the Delta Sky Club

Some call this cloud work, some call / this clever crows riding the updrafts.

“Define Situationship” should really / be a Jeopardy! question

Memoirist, editor extraordinaire, and dedicated literary citizen, it’s hard to miss Lilly Dancyger either out in the world or across the internet’s literary platforms

Isabella Rosselini said she loved her father’s big belly / because it reminded her of how he used to sit in bed / all day writing

Well, a lot happens in our lives every day. We experience so many things and most of what we experience—most of what we see and feel and smell and touch and taste—we forget. Because there's just too much information to take in. But the things that lodge in our minds and that come back to us as memories or that we hold on to, I think there's a reason. And that's because it's a poem waiting to happen.

My mother wrote a poem on her deathbed / after five bleak months of leukemia. / Something in Arabic to the effect of, Why me?

Meanwhile, my sister and I / rate our father’s revenge stories by punchline.

we take turns / taking pains / on the days we stomach together. / you’re in / prime / puking condition / after a bloody-nippled marathon. / idols are made / in amniotic fluid, clay / and tough mudder usa.

I’m so well recovered I dream of cramming teeth into my gums. Smile like an alley of garbage cans, a pane of bowling pins. Give me metal, I’ll gift you a turkey. And now the poem turns to hunting, in each declaration some allele of violence.

The summer my grandmother’s fugues started, my mom was working two jobs, one as a nurse at St. Joseph’s Hospital and another as a freelance secretary in a small translation house that sent her home with complimentary poetry collections that she read late at night by the weak light in the kitchen.

I am OK to go / into another / dimension / a vision of / vast idiocy / and solitude / release it / through my / otherly abled limbs