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.
Lately I’ve been feverish, prickly hot and sleepless. None of this work feels like
34. It seems I stand there now, that I’ll continue to stand, long after all has been demolished. Can you see me, erect in the…
by the docks, we go looking for steves frozen key lime pie on a stick covered in raspberry