by Allison Collins If I had guilt I would unzip the suit of my skin, undo the hooks, the eyes, cull out the soft matter, dismantle the bones and soak those relics in a bath of bleach, clattering and sudsy. And, like a toddler heavy with building blocks or a clumsy surgeon in that game,
by Lawrence Ernest Bridges I settle in my chair slowly, locks clicking to the infinite and everything’s right with the world. My shadow-body is carefree, pulsing out of me with my living body’s outline, in waves. The little I’ve done doesn’t worry me, yet done a little still and morning isn’t here yet. I raged
by Bruce Parker Years ago while I was in boot camp, my mom hocked my typewriter to buy vodka. I saw it again in the Taos home of D. H. Lawrence, quiet, on a little desk in a corner, the shock— That’s my typewriter and awe of the famous writer using “my” machine. More years
by Liam Strong in elementary i couldn’t contain my cursive between dotted lines, the blue-white high- way strung with prayer beads. like my legs informing that yes i know what it means to curl my tongue yes i know the hand bears its own dialect yes i know how the abdomen of a
I met Maureen Holm more than 20 years ago when I submitted a prose piece to BigCityLit. She was the prose and essay editor. She called me on the phone (!) to tell me that she thought my story would work better in a poem. I was not writing poetry then. She directed me to