June 11, 2019

In March, in Portland, a young man in a wheelchair asked me if I shape my poems the way I often do—long lines, a continuous strophe down the page—as a means of experiencing velocity, speed, and I said, yes, smiling, gratified by the insight. We were in a crowded space, the din of passers-by almost too much to hear his quiet voice, and I leaned over to better hear him. To give my attention in the b...

November 30, 2018

There was nothing special about the morning — in fact, thirty-two years later I remember only a little of it: how the sun was bright and hot and it was the last day of May and I had just graduated from the sixth grade the day before. I hadn’t slept well, the kind of deficit that would crush me today then was merely the blurred excitement at a life opening up. In my mind, in my imagination, the fut...

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2019 chapbook winner: introducing freda epum

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