When I finally returned to Southern California, I expected to find the locals in the grips of apocalyptic fear, arming themselves and venturing out from fortified homes only for the most necessary provisions. The area had recently suffered a brutal terrorist attack, during which over a dozen people were gunned down while attending a retirement…
Not long ago I walked into my graduate poetry workshop at Rutgers-Newark, where I have been teaching for the last decade. It was a Monday, and I carried into the classroom the weight of a new burden: the US Department of Health and Human Services had just proposed to establish a legal definition of gender…
Tess Gallagher, Is, Is Not, poems (Graywolf Press, May 2019) Tony Hoagland, The Art of Voice: Poetic Principles and Practice (W.W. Norton, March 2019)
Lauren Groff recommends Heart Berries by Terese Marie Mailhot (Counterpoint, 2018). “I’ve been haunted by this talented writer’s first memoir since I read it a month ago. It is knife-sharp and beautifully strange and so full of both kinds of madness that the madness seems to leak through the text and into the reader.” …
Ploughshares is pleased to present Dantiel W. Moniz with the eighth annual Alice Hoffman Prize for Fiction for her short story “Milk Blood Heat,” which appeared in the Spring 2018 issue, guest-edited by Lan Samantha Chang. The $2,500 prize, sponsored by member of the Ploughshares advisory board, longtime patron, acclaimed writer, and former guest editor…
I think, if I could,I’d be anything elsein this world. Mimosa pudica, my leavesclosing when touched.I’d go back to 1729, take for shelter the awfulcrypt Master kept me inwith only enough water to last between his visits,during which he spokenot to me but about me, as though I lackeda mind, an appeal forfellowship or feeling….
after Claude McKay & what’s the world to carve into your tombstonethen? Here lies a man, twenty-seven years old. He diedbut he ain’t no punk. He was one knife slicing, shit-talkin’ wick. The most lit sonofabitch who’s ever lived.He slept with Smith & Wessons under silk pillowcases.Here lies a body creased with whitewall tires.Here lies…
with lines from D. A. Powell We unyoke owl pellets from marrowin desert meadow. His mouth pigeon eye, a torch, womb turned flower. He, still a boy,dug from cactus skull. Undress into bark beetles. He unlearns how to hold a fistwith my hand. Bursts into dandelion seeds. We are all beautiful at least once.Mud water…
I. It’s entirely up to me to remember what you said. But all I recall is water, flour, strained yolk adding up to something beaten and inedible. I placed my ear to your stomach, whereexcess warmth gathers in the name of the body’s clandestineritual of diminishment. I’d crouch at your feetin the shower, allowing what pale lather ran in runnels from your hair,…
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