Last Poem

Because every poem kills itself / Because we kill ourselves in poems / Because death is inevitable and poetry is merely impossible More

Fire

“Everything was on fire….There were fingers of orange flame creeping through the grass on the backs, as though the fire were a living thing.” More

Milk

If she doesn't use a card, there's nothing to link her to the transaction. Why do you suppose she would want to hide a purchase of milk? More

The PEN Ten with Melissa Febos

We wield a lot of power, even when we don’t recognize it. Sometimes I think we’d rather not recognize it. We can’t afford to indulge that particular laziness anymore. More

Nat Turner

"And about this time i had a vision—and I saw white spirits and black spirits engaged in battle, and the sun was darkened—the thunder rolled in the Heavens, and… More