Shevaun Brannigan

Shevaun Brannigan - Committed

Shevaun Brannigan is a graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars, as well as The Jiménez-Porter Writers’ House at The University… Read more »
Jeff Whitney

Jeff Whitney - Meteors

Jeff Whitney is the author of five chapbooks, two of which were co-written with Philip Schaefer. His poems can be… Read more »
Andrew Collard
Portrait With Elegy And Iodine

Andrew Collard - Portrait With Elegy And Iodine

Andrew Collard lives in Kalamazoo, MI, where he attends grad school and teaches. His recent poems are forthcoming in Mid-American… Read more »
Audrey Gradzewicz
Song of Marshall Applewhite

Audrey Gradzewicz - Song of Marshall Applewhite

Audrey Gradzewicz was born in Buffalo, New York. Her poems have been published by, or are forthcoming from, Southern Indiana… Read more »
Rebecca Bornstein
Summer Vacation

Rebecca Bornstein - Summer Vacation

Rebecca Bornstein is a poet and worker currently living in Portland, Oregon. She’s held jobs as a production cook, professional… Read more »
Devon Miller-Duggan

Devon Miller-Duggan - Tales

Devon Miller-Duggan has published poems in Rattle, Shenandoah, Margie, Christianity and Literature, and Gargoyle. She teaches Creative Writing at the… Read more »
Gail Martin
Their Shapes Determined By How Cold The Air

Gail Martin - Their Shapes Determined By How Cold The Air

Gail Martin is the author of two books, Begin Empty-Handed (Perugia Press) and The Hourglass Heart (New Issues). A Michigan… Read more »

Portrait With Elegy And Iodine

Andrew Collard

Your family tree is a dozen weeks-old pizza boxes
stacked in the corner of the kitchen, each filled
with something vaguely hateful: a whited-out
page from Gideon’s Bible, or the fear of what’s not
on the local news. You think if you could see
your blood run, it might not tell you
where it’s headed. How can a river love
its mouth, still choked by passing ships?
How can a child shade a sketched figure
without shaking? Down the church hallway
you chased the boy who stole your drawings
but slipped, your head opened on the carpet.
Someone else’s mother cradled you,
dabbing softly at the wound until
the ambulance came, whispering a hymn
beneath your cries. The scar left is a string
of frozen days you spent playing
pick up basketball at the park, huffing
back and forth with hands bunched like the kid
you watched the other kids beat on one recess,
and didn’t speak a word of after. Even then you knew
you’d get hit next. Even then you couldn’t
take a swing. When you… Read more »