A Review of Jen Karetnick’s THE CROSSING OVER
A Review of Jen Karetnick’s THE CROSSING OVER
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Recent Posts
Still Life
A shoe stands / at the forest edge, / tongue depressed / with spectacles / and one gray sock.
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City with Imogen Inside
My husband shared his cigarettes with me + so when I die / I do with lungs like eggplants. My floral dress snapped at the waist because
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The World Already on Fire: Dzvinia Orlowsky’s Bad Harvest
Bad Harvest is a resonant folk song that fills the chambers of the future with echoes of the past. Its complex twists of hereditary and personal relations with language and work open a chasm of concern for the future that Dzvinia Orlowsky locates and does a little dance on the edge of. She stares openly, even mockingly, into the pit of impermanence and unpredictability, spinning the prescribed doom and mortality of what we all know shall end: health, love, and livelihood.
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Two Poems
One can hold a crossbow and a pussy / Willow with the same affection. / One can dream her own body in the arms / of the blue Mary
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No One Should Feel That Alone
Jane was handing someone a bouquet of satay, / gushing about Muller’s Foreign Cinema and Laszlo, / when I told her about the abortion. A party / not the best place to breathe new disclosures, to say: / The baby would be three years old now.
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Homecoming
Finally the war was over / we could go home but / wife was wary. Those houses? / said, watching the news. / >Those stores? schools? police? Fake. / believe what you see.
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A Review of Taneum Bambrick’s VANTAGE
A Review of Taneum Bambrick’s VANTAGE
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Editor in Chief Elizabeth Powell at Best American Poetry
This week, GMR’s editor in chief, Liz Powell, is blogging at the Best American Poetry site.
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A Review of Paige Ackerson-Kiely’s Dolefully, A Rampart Stands
A graphic review of Paige Ackerson-Kiely’s Dolefully, A Rampart Stands
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Spartanburg
She took the knife out now. Richard had just risen, the mattress swelling with the forgiveness of his weight. He paused at the bathroom door, the light behind him throwing a shadow on the outline of his taut belly. A stiff, wiry hair, strong as an antenna, pointed from his middle roundness. Clara Jayne had the overwhelming urge to pluck it. Maybe even to suck it. He said, “I’m so glad we’re doing this,” “this” meaning the child he wanted and she didn’t.
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Two Poems
It’s not like he can just be a rich dude, / my friend says of a guy we know. He has / enough money to keep him from finding / a job, not enough to just work on finding / himself. In money there are so many wrong / amounts. Zero, for instance.
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