Poetry
Watching the Cop Show in Bed
Apparently, it’s very, very bad to let a well-dressed man into your home. An Oxbridge accent, coupled with the claim your husband’s hurt, and he’s from Scotland Yard: disaster! When …
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You might say that a clod washed away diminishes the whole, the contours of the land effaced by saintly patience of the tide, which knows that in time its tiny …
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The Child and the Man
As a tot, inspired by some adventure In a picture book, you buried treasure Far in the back of your parents’ unkempt yard. You dug bare handed, and the soil …
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The Finder
How can you tell where things hide? How do you hear their drifting as they leave snail-like clues shifting through solid wall? You’ve reconciled lost spouses of earrings, netted a …
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Lostlandia
The national anthem’s a strange genre: pomp straining to conjure a circumstance under which a love song to a shaded patch on the map isn’t just sad, a train wreck …
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Victoria Soto
In the poem I show to no one, a young teacher hides her students from a gunman, lifts them into cupboards—her hands smoothing their hair, closing cupboard doors. Thousands of …
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