By Maria Hiers
Alana whips us
around the night
in her nineties jalopy.
On the rearview,
a rosary sways.
Our clique’s the…
around the night
in her nineties jalopy.
On the rearview,
a rosary sways.
Our clique’s the…
Explore Poems: Coming of Age
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- By Mayda Alexandra del ValleI want to ask you if you ever wanted to leave.
If you can see yourself living somewhere other than here… - By Karen McCarthy WoolfThe man in the south, near São Paulo, brown
and lean, in his late seventies, says it’s his bicycle—
he… - By Rodney JonesIt was July. I must have been sixteen or seventeen,
And proud to be chosen for a grown man’s work,
Hollowing… - By Ann-Margaret LimHolding his stare in mine, I flip the bird
at a grown man
on a stool in front of the street bar
on the … - By Mitchell GlazierStiletto melon collies, a tinsel mystic streaks our homeplace.
Lantern flies triple from the sleeping… - By Heidi WilliamsonYou’re fifteen and nowhere in a town on the edge of pitiful lands stripped of fruit. The burger van’…
- By Joshua BennettFor the sake of argument, let’s say
the day my father outlawed all contact
between backhand and face, … - By Shara McCallumWhy yu always ask stupid question, ee?
The man call mango head because him head
shape like mango. What… - By Sarah CarsonThe first gun we knew came in a toolbox for the apocalypse: hammer, barrel, crushed can, pack of Newports…
- By Carol Ann DuffyAt childhood’s end, the houses petered out
into playing fields, the factory, allotments
kept, like mistresses… - By Sarah CarsonThe last man here wanted
what could not be taken: My girl, he'd say,
my baby. The narrow of his eyes… - By Shira HausI prayed for my friend to live and he didn’t. I held his puffy hand, his heart jumping green on the…
- By Miguel A. VegaIf, even now, I am excited about it: every cow & horse,
every canoe on the surface of Pyramid Lake—…
- By Phil Kayeand yes it does beg
the question why
a nine-year-old needs
two twenty-dollar bills still
sticky and … - By Max FischerTaking off my clothes
feels like peeling off parts of
myself as if I’m a butterfly
with its wings sheared… - By Dianna Vegayou’ll listen to what i’ll say.
red is the absolute color
of nature. red is the passing
of your first… - By Tamsin MooreLong, empty roads stretching as long as the gas tank is willing—
Sixty-seven dollars left from last … - By Abriella Guertintwin plaits down my freckled back shining in suburban sunlight. my mother’s hands made…
- By Sarah Azizi
with a pair of solid-gold earrings,
as her grandmother puts it: the
only thing worth anything in the
camp…