Breathe I can’t breathe, said the fish who soon would dieI am a lie, sung the bird who could not flyI am the truth, said...

What’s Left of My Grandmother’s Signature In her room at Poet’s Walkher first name begins witha cursive J elegantlycompleting itself on the wall, resting in suspended...

The Night I Hear Sharon Olds Read Some rooms look dead from the outside.I eat late. I drink so much. Cold moon over an old drugstore...

Never Times Never (Shakespeare in the Pacific Northwest) The poet, gilled aches— Salmon his singular fling upstream arches hard— spawns another poem another daughter. Having evaded this time the law of...

Editor's note: This week we present three poems by a poet who left us far too soon. Bourgeon thanks Naomi Thiers for sharing these. Med...

I do not remember whereThe small town detectiveSat down with meTo take my statement These are the kinds of memoriesOur brains just can't hold on...

Blonde Hair Hides as much as Killed Stories No one comes over and you imagine yourself some squeaky clean museumwith the floors waxed nightly out...

The Thing about Mornings I’ll never forget We slept Splayed on memorial benches Morning dew falling on locks like overgrown caterpillars Crawling to crystallized captivity Your smile Sunrise evaporating what moisture...

Sea Monster A secret: all the oceans are one oceanAnd the ocean looks the same everywhere.Nevertheless, let us praise the white hour,When the depths disappear...

Neoplasm Sounds like an art movement --Neoclassicism, for example. But this is no art form.This is a biosphere of portentous possibilities. Tubular, twistedand prickly papilla what sculpted youinto...