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Night, Death, Mississippi by Robert Hayden I. A quavering cry. Screech-owl? Or one of them? The old man in his reek and gauntness laughs — One of them, I bet — and turns out the kitchen lamp, limping to the porch to listen in the windowless night. Be there with Boy and the rest if I was well again. Time was. Time was. White robes like moonlight In the sweetgum dark. Unbucked that one then and him squealing bloody Jesus as we cut it off. Time was. A cry? A cry all right. He h

Tonight We Die as a Family by Mohammed El-Kurd At the hospital the nurse is startled a surprise visitor: her husband’s corpse on a stretcher he arrived in the backseat of a taxi-- a makeshift hearse. There are not enough ambulances in Gaza and more than enough death. She is livid. Men never listen I told you wait till after my shift I need to tend to the wounded first I told you tonight we die as a family we were supposed to die as a family View of destruction in Rafah, sout

You Want a Social life, with Friends by Kenneth Koch You want a social life, with friends, A passionate love life and as well To work hard every day. What’s true Is of these three you may have two And two can pay you dividends But never may have three. There isn’t time enough, my friends—
 Though dawn begins, yet midnight ends—
 To find the time to have love, work, and friends.
 Michelangelo had feeling 
For Vittoria and the Ceiling
 But did he go to parties at day’s end? Ho

I Must Become a Menace to My Enemies by June Jordan Dedicated to the Poet Agostinho Neto, President of The People’s Republic of Angola: 1976 1 I will no longer lightly walk behind a one of you who fear me:                                     Be afraid. I plan to give you reasons for your jumpy fits and facial tics I will not walk politely on the pavements anymore and this is dedicated in particular to those who hear my footsteps or the insubstantial rattling of my g

The Occupation by Robert Bringhurst for Janet Danielson I will tell you how it was the world changed, she said --and darkness wrapped us round. I heard her clearly, though I barely heard the words. It was nearly--yes-- as if she were singing. Our job, she was saying, is not to change the world--nor even to keep it from changing. No, she was saying (the story was over already): our only job is being changed. This poem, by a Canadian poet (actually, an ex-pat American), s

For the Thief by Alison Hawthorne Deming Thank you for leaving the desk and the chair, the books, snapshots and piano. I've heard of moving van robberies-- coming home from work to percussion of empty rooms. Thank you for leaving the trapped air that softens the blunt edge of my day. What's mine--the hum of identity-- still surrounds me, though the electronics are gone and the jewelry that was too precious to wear. Thank you for not spraying the walls with coke or with piss.

Acceptance Speech by Lynn Powell The radio's replaying last night's winners and the gratitude of the glamorous, everyone thanking everybody for making everything so possible, until I want to shush the faucet, dry my hands, join in right here at the cluttered podium of the sink, and thank my mother for teaching me the true meaning of okra, my children for putting back the growl in hunger, my husband, primo uomo of dinner, for not begrudging me this starring role— without all

Free by Virgil Suarez When we first arrived in the United States from Franco's Spain, everything we encountered or bought had "free" written on it. The boxes of cereal spoke of a free mystery surprise, the junk mail came bundled, and somehow that word sang to us. My father and I got wise—the word became cheap, untrustworthy, hollow. Having been fooled before, we knew what "free" really meant. We learned lessons the hard way; nothing free ever came so easily, but my mother—

Sleeping with You by Ellen Bass Is there anything more wonderful? After we have floundered through our separate pain we come to this. I bind myself to you, like otters wrapped in kelp, so the current will not steal us as we sleep. Through the night we turn together, rocked in the shallow surf, pebbles polished by the sea. This wonderful poem was published in Ellen Bass' book, Mules of Love (BOA Editions, 2002). And yes, of course I love the title of this book! You can buy i

On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs by Renée Nicole Macklin Good i want back my rocking chairs, solipsist sunsets, & coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches.   i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores (mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp— the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):   rememb

Song of the Wonderful Surprise by Kelly Cherry Start with the fact of space; fill it up with snow. There will be snow in the sky, snow on the ground, snow in the mysterious courtyards. You taste snow's tang, smell snow, feel snow on your face. If you walk forever, you will not come to a place with no snow, but one day, looking around, you will find a green apple hanging from a spray of snow. I promised you a cheerier poem, and here it is! The poet, Kelly Cherry, is the autho

Sober Song by Barton Sutter Farewell to the starlight in whiskey, So long to the sunshine in beer. The booze made me cocky and frisky But worried the man in the mirror. Goodnight to the moonlight in brandy, Adieu to the warmth of the wine. I think I can finally stand me Without a glass or a stein. Bye-bye to the balm in the vodka, Ta-ta to the menthol in gin. I'm trying to do what I ought to, Rejecting that snake medicine. I won't miss the blackouts and vomit, The accidents

Hold your breath: a song of climate change by Bob Hicok The water’s rising but we’re not drowning yet. When we’re drowning we’ll do something. When we’re on our roofs. When we’re deciding between saving the cute baby or the smart baby. When there aren’t enough helicopters or news crews to circle over everyone. When sharks are in the streets. When people are dying. When people with wine cellars are dying. We’ll build dams and dikes, put stilts on our V-8s and golf courses, cu

The Word Plum by Helen Chasin The word plum  is delicious pour and push, luxury of self-love, and savoring murmur full in the mouth and falling like fruit taut skin pierced, bitten, provoked into juice, and tart flesh question and reply, lip and tongue of pleasure. This poem appeared in the 1968 collection Coming Close and Other Poems, which was published as the winner of the Yale Series of Younger Poets of that year. The series publishes a poet's first book and uses, of cou

I Go Back to May 1937 by Sharon Olds I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch, the    red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood behind his head, I see my mother with a few light books at her hip standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks, the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its sword-tips aglow in the May air, they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,    they are kids,

Lighting Up in the Bomb Shelter by Celia Lawren We didn’t care that missiles in Cuba were aimed at our homes.  We were twelve-year-old girls running barefoot through wet summer grass in the dark, headed for a slumber party in the bomb shelter. Cinder block cavern carved into basement corner, walls lit up in buttercup yellow― a curious Cold War feng shui conceived for a home economics project by my sister, It was packed with Free World amenities:   central air and heat, r

American Sonnet for the New Year by Terrance Hayes Things got terribly ugly incredibly quickly  Things got ugly embarrassingly quickly  actually Things got ugly unbelievably quickly  honestly Things got ugly seemingly infrequently  initially Things got ugly ironically usually  awfully carefully Things got ugly unsuccessfully  occasionally Things got ugly mostly painstakingly  quietly seemingly Things got ugly beautifully  infrequently Things got ugly sadly especially  freque

Snow, Fall by Judith Arcana That one time you hit the baby, that one time out on the street when the bus was so late and then didn't come and the snow started falling; that time you lifted all your food in bags, paper handles dampening and she kept holding onto your leg, pulling your coat and you couldn't carry her too while the flakes came thick and wet and faster. That’s the time you remember, not all the times you didn't, all those times when you didn't hit the baby, times

Christmas 1963 by Joseph Enzweiler Because we wanted much that year and had little. Because the winter phone for days stayed silent that would call our father back to work, and he kept silent too with our mother, fearfully proud before us. Because I was young that morning in gray light untouched on the rug and our gifts were so few, propped along the furniture, for a second my heart fell, then saw how large they made the spaces between them to take the place of less. Because

Trains in Winter by Jay Meek Over first coffee, I ride the diner and look out at snow fallen deep in gorges.  At winter stations, a locomotive can freeze to the rails, and a mountain night turn so cold it makes the rails snap.  Some trains in heavy snow overtake a moose herd along a roadbed, then sweep a few cows into a ravine, or maybe a bull crossing a trestle will go on through, catching his legs between the ties.  I've seen icebergs melting in a Newfoundland cove, their