Poem of the Day

Sea: Night Surfing in Bolinas

Issue 236, Spring 2021

Maybe enough light    •    to score a wave    •    reflecting moonlight, sand    •    reflecting
moonlight and you    •    spotting from shore    •    what you see only    •    as silhouette
against detonating bands    •    of blue-white effervescence    •    when the crown of the
falling    •    swell explodes upward    •    as the underwave blows through it    •    a flash
of visibility quickly    •    snuffed by night    •    the surf fizzling and churning    •
remitting itself to darkness    •    with a violent stertor    •    in competition with no other
sounds

Of

By Sheri Benning

the baby, name lost. 1906. Spring born,
almond and blackthorn in bloom. Meadowsweet,
chickweed, petals of milk on her lips.

Spider-silk saliva from mouth to crab apple fists,
on Mother’s lap, the train from Kiev to Minsk
after the last harvest in Tiegenort.

In the Coastal Town

By Kirmen Uribe

Pool at the Antzo-mendi
The Antzo-mendi bar was where
we went when we were male adolescents.
The place was big
and had a pool table in the middle.
Wooden floors.
You heard Velvet Underground there,
Ziggy Stardust.

Trotsky for Me Was

By Kirmen Uribe

Trotsky for me was riding
high up on the back of the tractor.

Trotsky for me was taking a bath naked
with my little friend in the bathtub.

from “1976: a Lyric, a Memory, a Lie, the Absolute Truth”

By Mary Crockett Hill

               In my family, a silver cup
               is called a goblet.

               A room with books, however small,
               a library.

Naji, 14. Philadelphia.

By Rita Dove

A bench, a sofa, anyplace flat—
just let me down
somewhere quiet, please,
a strange lap, a patch of grass . . .

Postlude

By Rita Dove

You prefer me invisible, no more than
a crisp salute far away from
your silks and firewood and woolens.

The

By Rae Armantrout

Let Scott equal “I.”

Scott says, “I
asked my team
to pull your records.”

Everything That Rises

By Alicia Wright

One after another the angel of history
Women: rural, 9, 1536, 1547, 1550, the angel of history
1551—52, 1559; in business, 147; and the angel of history

Is This a Bad Time

By Natalie Shapero

For how many years have I kept up the lie, the story
of the middle-aged man in the cap and the gray
or possibly bluish sweatshirt
gaining on me in the night, wrenching

The Complete Stories

By Noah Warren

Even relating it, Sofia shivered with the weirdness of it.
He’d read all my stuff online, I mean all of it. And he was like, glistening with the effort
of being nice to everyone, but especially me. How he knew I’d be there I don’t know.
What I hate is that I bought it. I thought he was lonely, sure, but changed, mature. It was only
after, walking home, that Jen told me. And I yelled at her for letting me interact with that,
which I regret, but she fucked up. I don’t care if he’s sober: hate is worse. Hate is poison.
I’d been murmuring sympathetic words, my face mirroring her revulsion; now I filled my eyes
with the care I felt for her, and feel; however, what I could find to say ended before the love did,
so a small silence came, Sam squeezed her hand, our expressions softened to the resting smile,