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 »

Our Father, the Lost Geometer

Cal Freeman

Down near the creek, Euclid Avenue floods
with brown-green water. I rest my right hand
on his Elements and swear that my life
will always be this circumscribed and small,
a rite that goes by many names,
among them allegiance, temperament, weather.
My sister wanders out in a fog of obtuse angles.
She wears a Gore-Tex slicker to bear
the heavy rain that’s falling from the north.
Cataracts echo in the culvert;
the submersible pump emits its steady hum.
Last August I watched the mud of the creek bed
dry to shaved ridges of bone
from the west-facing doors of my mother’s house.
These drastic riparian shifts drown
and erase the stories nobody wants told.
I keep referring to Euclid as our father.
I keep guessing where the edges of this life
fall off into ensoulment. In bisecting
the city he made us who we are,
a terminal series of squares and birthing lines,
as if this town were the geometry of grief
and we were blameless.
Read more »