by Barbara Egel

I couldn’t stop writing.
I wrote myself angled and tress-topped
I wrote myself hero, I wrote myself white,
Cherokee, cheerleader, distressed damsel in Alan Ladd’s arms,
I wrote myself winged, worshipped.
– “Related to the Buttercup, Blooms in Spring”

In this poem from her 2006 collection, Teahouse of the Almighty, Patricia Smith falls desperately in love. She…

read more

by Donald G. Evans

Chicago means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. It’s personal, how you think about it. We mentally form a composite sketch that includes iconic buildings, beloved restaurants and bars, L stops, historical events, places where we grew up or grew old, memories. We populate our own Chicago with people that make it home—sports stars and celebrities, sure,…

read more

by Dmitry Samarov

In 2021 I wrote about a bookstore coming to Bridgeport; in 2024, I personally move a majority of its 60,000 titles next door to a new location. It’s been a voyage of discovery, as ad-copy might put it.

I stop by the window and watch the storefront fill with…

read more

Harboring

I remember it was a Sunday when I discovered I was pregnant because Franz went off to church and I stayed home.

Franz was never gone. All except for Sundays of course. He’d set off in the mornings, then extend his leave into the late afternoon when he’d luncheon with the other adherents of the church. I went once. The people were amiable and…

read more

The Herring Net - Winslow Homer

my spine ached parallel to the sea surface,
clashing to the sides of the sailwood, Welch’s fingers in between
the fish-filled net, in exhaustion as dusk rose
my hands slippery hanging off the rim
tilting the boat slightly left,
With rain tingling on my hat, the waves transport us toward our enemies.
a bronze-outlined…

read more

Inviolable

I brought out a silver platter loaded with poached eggs, toast, glistening cherries, and sugar-coated pastries—much more than she was ever able to eat. Still, I made it for her, as always, with precision and care. We were alone here, the two of us, except for the endless cycle of housemaids living downstairs, none of whom stayed for long. Perhaps such acute isolation was…

read more

This writer has chosen not to post their poem.

read more

On Innocence and Black Youth

The door burst open, rattling as it slammed against the side of the brick house. The house’s owner stepped into the center of the doorway. His wife-beater was soaked with sweat stains, and his sunburnt shoulders stuck out from underneath it. The overwhelming smell of cigarettes flooded my nose, and his thick fingers gripped his handgun. My friends…

read more

This writer has chosen not to post their poem.

read more