The Blog


Meghan Maguire Dahn 

I am always trying to have polite conversation
with my own guilt: rose tea with juniper berry.

Bitterness abrades a delicate thing. Blundering
old bully.  Marmoreal hypocrite.  I am unrelenting

even in the presence of my strong little girls. Oh,
you skinned knees of the world, I promise you—

who climb any tree at all, delighted by capability—
I want to be kind when exposed.  I knock back

my potential for invisibility.  Any day now
I will be bridled in a stampede, pressed close

by the bison as they abandon the valley.  I will go along:
I am always looking to be deconsecrated by nature.

Nobody wishes for boredom, debt.  I begin to suspect
there is no appropriate ointment.  To taste

a little of a poison thing is to reflect.  Put down
the Tiger Balm. I will give up my perfect height.


At the Desk

R. E. Danielson

Long days at work and my back gives
so that my hands and feet
don’t care for much                 but sitting.
So I write
when the words surface.

I have the same things on my desk
I’ve had for years:          same books,          same lamp,
cigar boxes filled with things,
same pens.            I have a watch
my wife gave me when I started doing concrete.
It has a fabric band and a simple face.
It sits near a small statue of a bird dog staring down
at my hands
and that jaw bone I found along the Mississippi
years ago. 

I don’t often check the time when I write, but still the watch
has earned its place                  on the desk.


R. E. Danielson is a poet of the Mississippi River. He lives in rural Iowa and is working to complete a collection of poems.

Once I Was a Thimble but Now I Am a Bell

Erin Adair-Hodges

What are the words for how I feel today?
Beer can in the drainage ditch,
a litter of smittens, sunburned slash
where no arms could reach.
The morning wears last night’s mascara,
and I can be anything I want—
happy. Guilty. A certain kind of free,
as if the day is a car to which I have
keys. As if there is a road.
But I am February’s bone,
its marbled mate, de-leafed and
trembling. I was made in the image
of an image, grown hazy in translation
and a little bit of a lie. The good news
is that someday I may learn my lesson, but
the blood I make isn’t a reminder
nor is it the sin. It is the clanging—
not the hunger
but the promise of hunger to come. 



Dylan Carpenter

That year, spring travelled at six miles per hour, sweeping up Cape Horn through Ecuador,

Cuba through the U.S., a blush, reaching us faster than it ever had before.

When it came, we were in bed, and I imagined hearing hooves pounding in the downpour


Of rain; and after, I went out and gathered the seed balls of the sycamore

The storm had stripped, for you. Now what I want to do is impossible. Whatever place you’re

The anonymous goddess of, I’d like to send an extinct grackle there to tell you what I long for.


I don’t know. Maybe you were meant to hear my love without returning it, to walk the seashore

In a floral pinafore—I’ll sing anyway. I want to say: My heart’s still lit up like a ctenophore

Beached by high tide. Remember when you made me wait with my mouth open for an hour or


Nervous System

Rosalie Moffett


            Terrifically alone in tulips

                        the rain made of the South China Sea

            I swam toward a tiny island scrimmed with washed-up coral


                         and purple shells.

            I saw how many perfect ones

                        waited for me. Giddy,


            ashore, I pawed through them, straightened up

                        only when my hands were full. It was

            like realizing I’d put on someone else’s jacket


            by accident. The joy was not my own.

                        My mother was the one

            who could never leave



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