Meg Kearney (Two Poems)
When he was dying my little brother
said cancer was “the sins of our mother”
visited upon him. What’s also true:
her heart was the stone rolled away from the tomb.
February 24, 2025 · 26 Comments
Meg Kearney: Hearts of Poets (Two Poems)
By the time his body washed ashore, all
that was left was burned on the beach, deathbed
a pyre lit by three friends; two then fled
January 27, 2025 · 26 Comments
John Okrent: This Costly Season
I picture Whitman,
wending his way through wounded Union
soldiers—his democratic nostrils, the smell of dead
or dying flesh. And in all the dooryards, the smell of lilacs.
May 1, 2022 · 1 Comment
Stephanie L. Harper: A Crown Most Unroyal
Some humans really don’t object to dying
as much as they hold dear an asshat’s right
to choose to spread disease over complying
February 9, 2022 · 7 Comments
