Issue 109

A poem for lost love. “If I wash myself / where will you go?”

You are not here. / Just this precious, flawed body, briefly home / to your soul.

Jon Henry photographs Black mothers and sons across America.

Hunger is what drives, / unloveliest of urges, most / appealing to the gaping grave.

To think—I thought it cute, / the doctrine that the oak trees sculpt / the air and water

May the curious prayer of work keep me / in contact with the stone / / and who knows what else.

My feelings toward Izzy changed by the hour. She was the most dominant person I’d ever known, shorter than me but somehow looking down on me constantly. On her left wrist was a tattoo of a cross. I asked if she was religious. She said no.

the gates are not pearly / but white and scaly / like fish.

I wasn’t afraid until / I peeked into the hall, saw a black-clad SWAT team / scooting along the wall, rifles held vertical, a strict formality / that made the whole world seem shabby.

the body learns to move / like a painter / seeing the unseen.