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Here’s a first, he said, some nutbag wants to dig the grave himself.

Someone was saying his name, and that’s how he knew he was dead.

I will rehearse loss until I feel it coming. Until it’s real.

Handwritten drafts of “Byzantium,” “Easter, 1916,” and other poems.

We pushed through the doors, back into the audition, among the lithe adults.

Are you there? I couldn’t tell you about the time I saw the deer.

“Mom, don’t you think the fucking racism is worse than my profanity?”

New cartoons from Glen LeLievre, Liza Donnelly, and more!

We'd see them more, but your father and I aren't much for traveling.

Mick Stevens

Now the mulch has come between us seven turns, I’ve grown dramatic.

Arnold’s daily life was a race between money and death.

They peer into their mirrors to see whatever is bearing down.

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry.

Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?

Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?

Narrative Prize and Pushcart winner Anthony Marra reads “Chechnya.”

Diane cupped my cheek in her hand, studying me, memorizing me.

Getting over being drunk makes you wonder why the hell you did that.

All that I’ve had, I’ve left propped up in a glass vase: cut stems at rest.

Sudden camera blurs, blackouts, audio hiccups, silences.

Love I know is the husk caught and throbbing under your gums.

There’s nothing left to do but crush the garlic, check the water on the stove.

The cherry tree’s trance of petals tumbled bit by bit to the sidewalk.

A painter dies of a heart attack before finishing a portrait of Churchill.