By Richard Siken
Driving, dogs barking, how you get used to it. bow you make the new street yours.Trees outside the ...
Explore Poems: Midlife
Showing 1-20 of 155 poems
- By R. Erica Doyleletting the words fly like smoke uncurling from our mouths we lie in bed with dykes ten years our junior...
- By Corey ZellerWe spend the evening listening to folk songs from the early 2000s. Make a stew. Cut carrots the color...
- By John TickhillIn a sesone of somere þat souerayne ys of alle, Þat was þe myry monþ of May May May is a “somere” month...
- By Beth Ann Fennellyreveals itself in retrospect. Unlike the first, whose March arrival bade you gasp, hands clasped, like...
- By A. Van JordanLately, my friends ask me, out of love, have I written about my mother, who suffers under the storm ...
- By Anni LiuHe takes me, his adult child swaddled in foreignness, to the southern provinces. Opaque scenes unfold...
- By W. S. Di PieroThe city budget squads have trimmed its hours. “You can’t get in, just go home why don’t you.” I couldn...
- By Anne SextonI was thinking of a son. The womb is not a clock nor a bell tolling, but in the eleventh month of its...
- By John ClareAnd what is Life?—An hour-glass on the run, A Mist retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling...
- By Christian WimanAll my friends are finding new beliefs. This one converts to Catholicism and this one to trees. In a...
- By Kathleen OssipTo have arrived here, weighed down with fistfuls of calendar entries, unsuitably boggle-eyed as if new...
- By Kit FanIt was summer in Hokkaido. The forest stole the wind and I swallowed my footsteps. Nobody came to the...
- By Matvei YankelevichAs winter went on, every morning’s spoon of buckwheat honey resembled more the taste of that isosceles...
- By Sally Van DorenI have scrawled audible lifelines along the edges of the lint trap, dropping the ball of towel fuzz ...
- By Mona Van DuynPoised upside down on its duncecap, a shrunken purple head, True Blueberry, enters its tightening frame...
- By Stephen DobynsNihilism, but not in a negative sense—such was his thought, what else to call it? Like snow inside a...
- By Stephen DobynsCabbage—the first word put down with his new pen, a trophy pen, like a trophy wife, not cheap, absurd to use a...
- By Paul KillebrewIt was the year we decided not to get divorced. The poem said something like clouds moving quickly across...
- By Michael HartnettAh yes - they justify it all, the brats, hungry or asleep and gorged with milk. Each drop's (yes, the...