To Live in the Zombie Apocalypse by Burlee Vang The moon will shine for God knows how long. As if it still matters. As if someone is trying to recall a dream. Believe the brain is a cage of light & rage. When it shuts off, something else switches on. There’s no better reason than now to lock the doors, the windows. Turn off the sprinklers & porch light. Save the books for fire. In darkness, we learn to read what moves along the horizon, across the periphery of a gun scope—

Song: Let Us Go Back by Vita Sackville-West Let us go back together to the hills.  Weary am I of palaces and courts,  Weary of words disloyal to my thoughts,— Come, my belovèd, let us to the hills. Let us go back together to the land,  And wander hand in hand upon the heights; Kings have we seen, and manifold delights,— Oh, my beloved, let us to the land! Lone and unshackled, let us to the road  Which holds enchantment round each hidden bend,  Our course uncompassed and our

Cherry Blossoms by Toi Derricotte I went down to mingle my breath with the breath of the cherry blossoms. There were photographers: Mothers arranging their children against gnarled old trees; a couple, hugging, asks a passerby to snap them like that, so that their love will always be caught between two friendships: ours & the friendship of the cherry trees. Oh Cherry, why can’t my poems be as beautiful? A young woman in a fur-trimmed coat sets a card table with linens, candl

Leave It All Up to Me by Major Jackson All we want is to succumb to a single kiss that will contain us like a marathon with no finish line, and if so, that we land like newspapers before sunrise, halcyon mornings like blue martinis. I am learning the steps to a foreign song: her mind was torpedo, and her body was storm, a kind of Wow . All we want is a metropolis of Sundays, an empire of hand-holding and park benches. She says, "Leave it all up to me." This poem appeared in

I Stop Writing the Poem by Tess Gallagher to fold the clothes. No matter who lives or who dies, I’m still a woman. I’ll always have plenty to do. I bring the arms of his shirt together. Nothing can stop our tenderness. I’ll get back to the poem. I’ll get back to being a woman. But for now there’s a shirt, a giant shirt in my hands, and somewhere a small girl standing next to her mother watching to see how it’s done. This poem originally appeared in Poetry East , Issue

Fire and Ice By Robert Frost Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice. This is one of Frost’s most famous poems and a favorite for people who need (or want) to memorize a poem. I do not have much to say about this one, except that the weird rhyme scheme works: ABAABCB

Little Song for Kimberly by Alison Pelegrin Child, don’t bother tracking down your kin. Keep Out. Police line—can’t come in. Though I guess You’ll wonder why you’re mean like a Marine, Where you got them smarts. Blame it on us— Olympic liars, a.k.a. your mama’s side. We never knew there was a you, I swear. And once we did, Amanda said you died, Sent us hunting for your cremains everywhere. The ones who have you now can’t be so bad. I bet you never toddle in the dirt With a f

Dreamers by Siegfried Sassoon Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.    In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.    Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win    Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives. I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed

Ars Poetica by Rita Dove Thirty miles to the only decent restaurant was nothing, a blink in the long dull stare of Wyoming. Halfway there the unknown but terribly important essayist yelled Stop! I wanna be in this; and walked fifteen yards onto the land before sky bore down and he came running, crying Jesus--there's nothing out there! I once met an Australian novelist who told me he never learned to cook because it robbed creative energy. What he wanted most was to be mute;