Happy Friday, friends! Here’s a new poem of mine, based on Sylvia Plath’s “Little Fugue.” Enjoy!… Read More New Poem: A Seagull Makes A Lone Call, Off-Course (after Sylvia Plath)
Click here to view my review of The Bottom. Betsy Andrews’ book-length poem, The Bottom, was published by 42 Miles Press in 2014 and received the 2013 42 Miles Poetry Prize. Sections of this poem appeared in such places as Kadar Koli, BoogCity, Stone Canoe and The Laurel Review, as well as Poets for… Read More The Bottom: An Interview with Betsy Andrews
Click here to view my interview with Betsy Andrews. When I first began reading Betsy Andrews’ book-length poem, The Bottom, I was reminded of an incident that occurred nearly two years ago now. In October of 2012, an article appeared on Slate.com regarding a large, startlingly-blue eye that had washed up on a Florida… Read More We Could Do Better, You and I: Ecology, Design and Poetry: Reading Betsy Andrews’ The Bottom
We’re too damaged to go back now, left a little too far open, lost moons, the open box-cutters with a blade that shines like glass against your hair, your eyes, the feeling of blade to skin. Watching you, this is how a river feels— too cool, too fast, a stampede of horses. We can… Read More False Memory
No matter how long I’ve been reading and writing professionally, it still amazes me how much a little time away can contribute to my appreciation of a larger work. During my first year as the Layout and Design Editor at New Issues Poetry and Prose, I had the extreme benefit of working with Kerrin… Read More “The Snapping Open of a Valve / A Bird’s Egg”: Reading Kerrin McCadden’s Landscape with Plywood Silhouettes
There was a moment when I thought of you, and I longed for water. Two black pitchers laid on the ground in the shadow of what must have been an old well. Their two mouths were crusted with the last snowfall’s ice. Their mouths like two ovals learning how to kiss a forgotten earth.… Read More The Separation
Break open the branch. Inside– there is lime and tree foam. Like marrow. The white liquid that illuminates the skin, full of leaves and freshly-plucked strawberries. Like dawn, opening: he captures this about her in a painting, surrounds her with blood oranges, places roses around her face. The girl becomes something like a funeral, the… Read More No Skin Included.
There was a morning when she opened herself to horses— it was a sort of release, the wind and soft petals under her toes. She waited out in the field, their bodies lingering off on the horizon. They looked black against the sun, manes twisting, all muscle. She imagined their eyes, like dew and something… Read More Nights that Dreamed Her Open
