There’s something so compelling and curious and impossible—trying to get inside one’s own mind, to think around and about one’s own thinking. We donated my father’s…
I’m far from home, / and you’ve long since receded / into shadow
Congratulations to the Ocean State Review’s 2025 Pushcart Prize Nominees!
She got out of bed and went over to the window. The old wooden frame was drafty, the panes opaque with frost. A polar vortex,…
It was a tricycle, abandoned in some weeds along the river, that prompted this story. In my first draft, I began with section 2, the…
My mother, the poet, Rosemary Cappello, believed in the power of literary journals, and of poetry, to change the world. Of course she was a…
In “Happiness is a Warm Gun (Summer 1969),” Norman and his brother Murray are learning the ropes of marksmanship at a Boy Scout camp with…
Ever since my father handed Neruda’s Isla Negra, he has been one of my favorite poets. This used to be a much longer poem, then…
The poem is not ekphrastic in nature. Instead, I wondered what it’d be like to call a poem after a made-up work of art, to…
The desert is deeper than I thought, deeper than thought, that trickster, bait- and-switcher, rabbit snare.