Stevie Edwards
But Nothing’s Fair after Love

Stevie Edwards - But Nothing’s Fair after Love

Poetry
Stevie Edwards is a poet, editor, and educator. She is Editor-in-Chief at Muzzle Magazine and Acquisitions Editor at YesYes Books.… Read more »
Katie Knoll
Louise Bourgeois to Her Husband, on Love and Her Father’s Mistress

Katie Knoll - Louise Bourgeois to Her Husband, on Love and Her Father’s Mistress

Poetry
Katie Knoll is currently a MA student of fiction at the University of Cincinnati. Her work has appeared or is… Read more »
Cal Freeman
Our Father, the Lost Geometer

Cal Freeman - Our Father, the Lost Geometer

Poetry
Cal Freeman was born and raised in Detroit. His poems have appeared in many journals including The Journal, Commonweal, Berfrois,… Read more »
Adam Clay
Performance Art

Adam Clay - Performance Art

Poetry
Adam Clay is the author of A Hotel Lobby at the Edge of the World (Milkweed Editions, 2012) and The… Read more »
Megan Grumbling
Persephone’s Blues Song

Megan Grumbling - Persephone’s Blues Song

Poetry
Megan Grumbling’s Vassar Miller Prize-winning poetry collection, Booker’s Point, is forthcoming from the University of Texas Press in spring of… Read more »
Stephanie Ellis Schlaifer
Piedmont

Stephanie Ellis Schlaifer - Piedmont

Poetry
Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Stephanie Ellis Schlaifer is a poet and installation artist in St. Louis. She has an MFA… Read more »
Marlys West
Regret and Other Bodies

Marlys West - Regret and Other Bodies

Poetry
Marlys West is an award-winning writer living in Los Angeles. She has been published in journals and anthologies including American… Read more »
John Sibley Williams
The House Winter Built

John Sibley Williams - The House Winter Built

Poetry
John Sibley Williams is the author of eight collections, most recently Controlled Hallucinations, and the editor of two Northwest poetry… Read more »

But Nothing’s Fair after Love

Stevie Edwards

Because I was a bad finger to tie his ribbon to.
Because I was a bad sky
to look up at—
not ugly, but bad. Because I threw myself
into myself. Because I threw
the sky into a suitcase
I left in New York. Because I never learned
to drive myself. Because I needed
a guide out of the woods. Because I lost
my way, sat down in the middle of brambles
so high above my head but didn’t say
come, didn’t say come get me, not once.
Because he said take care of yourself
on the voicemail I deleted.
Because I thought that was taking care
of myself. Because I was cruel with honey,
lured in the ants to squash. I can’t
resent them for coming.
I can’t even step out of my bedroom without
ruining my shoes: I am the wrecking ball
and the closed factory. I am what swings.
Read more »