"Red Sea" painting by JoAnneh Nagler

by Olivia Calderón

The earth is salted
with the tears of giants
and now only dead things grow.

The seasons change around them.
Frost, leaves, thawing, they
never moved. Not an inch.

But something changed.

Because the crops reek of rot,
the soil is boiling blue, and there’s
mold creeping through husks of husks.

They said there was no other option.
They said they were grieving and sorry.
They said it would all be over soon.

"Falling From Heaven" painting by JoAnneh Nagler

by Micah Cozzens

 

Sisters and I share a room and they say, Did you bite
my lipstick in half like a carrot?
No, I lie. I didn’t. I didn’t.
They let me sit on the lid-down toilet and watch
them try on smooth dresses
while they push their hair into cylinders,
coils that sproing hot and then, after teasing,
expand into voluminous gleaming,
lacquered to shine in the cheap lighting
of a movie theater, a bad restaurant,

"The Light Never Sleeps" painting by JoAnneh Nagler

by Timothy Liu

So this is where love had gotten
us—a land of plenty with one

too many singing bowls

sounding off, as if their brass
had been warped from too much

pounding. There there. Slow it

down, the Old Man said, don’t be
afraid to feel the thing ring out—

it’s not like it’s going to kill you.

Timothy Liu’s latest books of poems are Down Low and Lowdown and Luminous Debris.