J. Scott Bugher
A Cincinnati Boil

J. Scott Bugher - A Cincinnati Boil

J. Scott Bugher is a writer, artist and session musician living in Indianapolis, Indiana. His poetry and short stories have… Read more »
Michael Lavers
Light Years

Michael Lavers - Light Years

Michael Lavers completed an MFA from the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. His poems and essays have appeared in… Read more »
Ash Bowen
Murder in the Red Barn

Ash Bowen - Murder in the Red Barn

Ash Bowen’s first collection of poems, The Even Years of Marriage, won the 2012 Orphic Book Prize for Poetry and… Read more »
Laura McCullough
Nautical Tattoo

Laura McCullough - Nautical Tattoo

Laura McCullough’s most recent book of poems is Rigger Death & Hoist Another. Her other books are Panic, Speech Acts,… Read more »
Roy Bentley
One Wench in the House between Them

Roy Bentley - One Wench in the House between Them

Roy Bentley’s work has been recognized with fellowships from the NEA, the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs, and the Ohio… Read more »
Mark Wisniewski
To Bukowski, #43

Mark Wisniewski - To Bukowski, #43

Mark Wisniewski’s second novel, Show Up, Look Good, was praised by Ben Fountain, Kelly Cherry, T.R. Hummer, Jonathan Lethem, and… Read more »
Hilary Sideris

Hilary Sideris - What

Hilary Sideris’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Green Mountains Review, Memoir, Quiddity, The Southampton Review, and Southern Poetry… Read more »
Richard Prins

Richard Prins - Zunguka

Richard Prins is a New Yorker who sometimes lives in Dar es Salaam. He received his MFA degree in poetry… Read more »

Light Years

Michael Lavers

Mostly the desire to feed themselves,
and the rusty lineage of tools invented
to that end. Everything else was waiting,
discussions about weather interrupted
only by the need to bury their dead.
They tried their hardest to kill time, to fill
the gaps left open by survival. Wars helped.
So did the internet. And so did painting,
as far as we can tell. At thirty two
feet per second per second, children fell
out of their mothers into dirt, were cleaned off
and given names. Birds that left each fall
came back each spring. Moss interred the churches,
doctors washed their hands, and viruses
made promises to blood that nobody
could break. All this they called life. They cried
out in the night hoping someone heard,
googled their tough questions, and in the dark
the answers grew. What else can we say?
We have no way to know if they were happy;
only that they were brief, that they were somewhere
Read more »