Poetry: If you could slit the black, sucked-in skin, / you’d find her there, alone in a chasmic closet.

Poetry: A Boy Runs / out of his lungs like they are a coat held by a parent at a school gate…

Poetry: Promise explodes from her gossamer wings as she crosses the threshold…

Poetry: I turned my father into a hotel…

Poetry: birds haunt the train tracks / and the doors beyond doors

Poetry: Feathers dropped by angel wings / light and soft as in your dreams

Poetry: Is there such a thing as a native bird? /
Those original fair weather friends of / Early morning song, emigrants of winter…

Poetry: The house is quiet. / I admire my sharp nails. / I have been invoking wolves.

Poetry:
hello, my name is cupid and i eat
the heartache — out of people for a living

Poetry: Lately I’ve let my hands go weak, I’m not responding / to emails

Poetry: i text you about all my meals so you know what’s inside of me when it’s not you.

Poetry: when we talk about / ourselves post breakup / why do we preserve / our
exceptionalism?

Poetry: … She’d play Scott Joplin’s waltz, ‘Bethena’, its title like her name, so I thought the song was hers …

Poetry: i text you about all my meals so you know what’s inside of me when it’s not you.

Poetry: “Boiled eggs taste better at sea,” she claimed. We dedicated our morning to untangling rods and replacing hooks.

Poetry by Annie Carter