Announcing the Confrontation 2016 Poetry Prize: $750 and publication in one of our 2016 issues for the winning poem. The submissions window is open until March 15. See this post for details.
It is Christmas Day in Lalibela, Ethiopia—December 25, the day chosen to commemorate the birth of Christ in the world of Western Christianity. In Ethiopia, the celebration won’t arrive for another fifteen days because the Ethiopian Orthodox Church adheres to the Eastern calendar.
There is sand on the sheets
of the bed in this room.
There is a pause. You consider what I’ve said,
then you begin playing Für Elise. I am lonely
in a way no nearness can alter.
In the beginning, from the inky black mouth of God, into a darkness so deep that any subsequent darkness seemed ironic, a pale simulacrum of true night, there was a word.
My wife and I moved upstate when we retired from our former jobs: I from newspaper reporting on poor people’s crimes, and she from event planning for rich people’s weddings.
In the shade of a tall locust in Pioneer Park, sharing a blanket, Deena Lee was on her feet performing a stretch and Montgomery Bolt was on his back, in plaid Bermuda shorts, reading a book.
Imagine you were born in a box. A big box, you can walk around in it, you have food and whatever. That’s not the point. You grow up in this box.
The list of contributors to the Fall 2015 issue.
My friend Joseph, in his plaid shirt, old jeans
& slippers, tells me he’s studying Heidegger again.
my wife told me to go fuck myself.
I detested the closed petals, the hidden corollas
folded like a carapace, not letting
the light beam in . . .
At my age
one becomes a bird.
The doctor is grave about my bones,
so empty that a narrow light shines through.