Poems

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DEATH MARCH
Carry her the way it has to hurt:
Terese Svoboda
When My Son Is Dead 16 Years
After you died, my Beautiful boy,
Alexis Rhone Fancher
Writing Under the Influence of Me
It means I drop things, and I keep turning
Tony Hoagland
Abramovic
The eyes are the edge of the central nervous system.
Rick Barot
Vortex Street
I tied my hands behind me so I won’t hurt you.
Page Hill Starzinger
Inner City Canal
This water tumbling over the canal locks
Michael Smith
Ode to Disarmament
I am fairly sure that the leafhopper
John Kinsella
Taking It Back
Two weeks past Epiphany,
Joseph Bathanti
A Controlled Substance
My brother is late again, somehow the glass
Brendan Constantine
Godscan
The sun is the size of a human foot.
T.R. Hummer
Don’t Pick the Cherries Yet
Don’t pick the cherries yet—
Maya Sarishvili
The Book of Before All This
They're retrieving what's retrievable.
Marianne Boruch

DEATH MARCH