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Neil Silberblatt remembers a friend, taken before his time, in this quiet slice-of-life.

Neil Silberblatt remembers a friend, taken before his time, in this quiet slice-of-life.

Hayden Saunier remembers a beloved friend in this Greek tragedy of a poem.

Hayden Saunier remembers a beloved friend in this Greek tragedy of a poem.

Pepper Trail presents a touching slice-of-life in this jewel of a poem.

Pepper Trail presents a touching slice-of-life in this jewel of a poem.

A poem of quiet power and beauty, Dalton Day's "The Last Time My Father Sees Me" strikes a rare balance between honest emotion and fresh, surreal imagery.

A poem of quiet power and beauty, Dalton Day's "The Last Time My Father Sees Me" strikes a rare balance between honest emotion and fresh, surreal imagery.

If Walt Whitman had lived in a different time, he might've written Perry Brass's celebration of the boy in all of us.

If Walt Whitman had lived in a different time, he might've written Perry Brass's celebration of the boy in all of us.

Christopher Nelson remembers "Bloody Knuckles"—and the disturbing things it taught us about manhood.

Christopher Nelson remembers "Bloody Knuckles"—and the disturbing things it taught us about manhood.

Sweet and sad at the same time, this poem from Jia Oak Baker speaks to age, desire, and a kind of freedom.

Sweet and sad at the same time, this poem from Jia Oak Baker speaks to age, desire, and a kind of freedom.

Dean Kostos expertly weds form and content in this poem--a villanelle--whose use of refrain and repetition reflects an old man's movement through time and memory.

Dean Kostos expertly weds form and content in this poem--a villanelle--whose use of refrain and repetition reflects an old man's movement through time and memory.

Angel Garcia brings us an encounter with the natural world and, with it, a moment of great resonance, startling emotional clarity.

Angel Garcia brings us an encounter with the natural world and, with it, a moment of great resonance, startling emotional clarity.

Искам да е октомври .  Двайсти или двестни. В стара къща с мъничка веранда. Да е вечер, между 8 и безкрая. Да бъдем в стаята със скъсани тапети, от тавана да виси крушка (оголена, единствено по жици), без абажури, без мокет. Да ухае на липов чай или пък ментов, сушени плодове и сладко от череши. Да бъда сгушена до теб, без грим, без дрехи - само по чорапи (плетени може и пришити). Да виждам отразения си образ в твоите очи. Да мълчим до 10 и след това до следващия месец.  Камелия Стефанова

Искам да е октомври . Двайсти или двестни. В стара къща с мъничка веранда. Да е вечер, между 8 и безкрая. Да бъдем в стаята със скъсани тапети, от тавана да виси крушка (оголена, единствено по жици), без абажури, без мокет. Да ухае на липов чай или пък ментов, сушени плодове и сладко от череши. Да бъда сгушена до теб, без грим, без дрехи - само по чорапи (плетени може и пришити). Да виждам отразения си образ в твоите очи. Да мълчим до 10 и след това до следващия месец. Камелия Стефанова

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