San Francisco, how sweet you talk at night, whispering your misty history into the open, majestic mouth of my hotel room window. I look towa...

It happened at an intersection in the middle of almost nowhere, at the edge between the green tamaracks and the wide open above the flowerin...

The sour smell of damp attic & the sleeper too small for the three of us on it, our father between us & one set of legs loose & ...

climate change debate the barmaid cools herself  with an ice cube John McManus is a haiku poet from Carlisle, Cumbria, England. He is th...

Dad drives…searching? Looking for his passenger of sixty years, wondering if he left her at the restaurant when she went to the bathroom? Tr...

7 a.m., December 25th, too depressed to get out of bed, contemplating solutions, the unmentionable comes to mind, followed quickly by a desi...

Part One Quiet pond morning in August, Kayak gliding alongside the past: A pine tree, now bare, reaches out Over the shallow bay; Summers ag...

stretching one paw in front of the other & yawning the way I’ve always wanted to yawn or the way I once yawned but can no longer remembe...

we laugh about it in the way women laugh when men have done something we can’t believe or shouldn’t but in fact do or when we are scared or ...

We close our faces and open the door. One after another, people come into our house, faces open in grief, ask us if there’s anything they ca...

At birth, only fingerprints defined the difference between the creatures with the small, round heads. Both of them constantly cried, began a...

the soft curves of what i hope to be the last woman i'll ever be in love with her brown skin resting in my arms simpatico our hearts mol...

In December the ice had left an eggshell coating on New York’s streets, but still we insisted--mother, brother, all of us--to celebrate your...

Dry, sandy plain that used to be Elysian fields of hops, barley. No farms since the drought. Homesteaders, even, have gone. Most of them, an...

“I’ve heard it all before,” she says, balancing a drink tray against her hip. “How can you not? I’m surrounded by drunk guys for eight hours...

The skin on the backs of her hands Looks like lady slipper petals Translucent Tiny-veined So delicate She scratches it incessantly Buckled i...

After my father died, my mother spent her days sorting through his closets, giving away armloads of clothes, unused tools, electric gadgets,...

I consider myself lucky to sit today at an old desk, window open, the soft whirr of the brass-bladed Emerson fluttering the pages of a paper...

Some say this man who every Tuesday rides his bike to the Library is the son of someone famous. Some say he graduated with honors from Yale,...

Yesterday’s mockingbird returns today, bringing an addition to its repertoire. To my ears, it mews a good imitation of my cat, but she merel...