Meanwhile, my sister and I / rate our father’s revenge stories by punchline.

As an undergraduate at NYU, Daniel Lefferts found mythical beings: students at the Stern School of Business. They eschewed the de rigueur American Apparel hoodies and skinny jeans in favor of Patagonia vests, khakis.

When the water recedes, a flock of / small stones appears along the shore

“Define Situationship” should really / be a Jeopardy! question

Isabella Rosselini said she loved her father’s big belly / because it reminded her of how he used to sit in bed / all day writing

For months, small gold crowns have fallen from the sky.

Carolyn Hembree’s For Today is a triumph of Mississippi Delta poetry.

I thought I was undesirable. Unlovable, sounding / Just like a Bachelor lead, with way less privilege, not / Kissing generically gorgeous ladies in Forever 21 gowns.

Who you are, what made me assent—all I know’s I was hopeful and bored / reposing in the Delta Sky Club

Memoirist, editor extraordinaire, and dedicated literary citizen, it’s hard to miss Lilly Dancyger either out in the world or across the internet’s literary platforms

Foxes keep showing up. Their voice contains a baby crying at night.

It’s not the first time / someone did wrong, and you / smelled your blame

I’ve never worked at a fish processing plant, but I’ve met a few people who have.

Some call this cloud work, some call / this clever crows riding the updrafts.

Her body and mine are the same shape. By reason, this means mine can be touched. I still can’t stomach it.

Well, a lot happens in our lives every day. We experience so many things and most of what we experience—most of what we see and feel and smell and touch and taste—we forget. Because there's just too much information to take in. But the things that lodge in our minds and that come back to us as memories or that we hold on to, I think there's a reason. And that's because it's a poem waiting to happen.

After death the heart sometimes keeps beating / a little. Or after it’s removed / from the body.

My Jewish wife and I / went into the Old City / through Damascus Gate / to eat sweet orange squares of knafeh.

I was shimmying on stage, apoplectic in the harsh blue neons, when I remembered I have loved you my whole life.

My mother wrote a poem on her deathbed / after five bleak months of leukemia. / Something in Arabic to the effect of, Why me?

It’s late on a Saturday night and Metalhead is at some kid’s basement party. The kid got the new Slayer album that afternoon and has it blaring because his parents are not home. Rockgod holds both hands up in the air like he is prey for bandits, but the rest of his body convulses, his head shaking back and forth, up and down and windmilling along with the drum beat. Metalhead laughs and then there is a body careening into him, pushing him into another kid who is jumping and shimmying against the wall because heavy metal is the stuff that binds kids together, the fray that keeps their blood inside them. When Metalhead’s sister has her friends over, they dance in the living room to Madonna or Culture Club while his father complains that the music is too loud. Metalhead can feel the guitar in his teeth, can feel the speakers’ rumble deep in his chest.

Three shades of afternoon light—gluttonous— / Salt me when I open the door / I wasn’t expecting it / Marigold mouths pout / Fresh leaves threaded to greet newcomers / What a betrayal then, to curdle with sweetness!

Foxes keep showing up. Their voice contains a baby crying at night.

Mother and the children had never killed before. That was Father’s work. All month long the rain came down, and gray-faced Father coughed in his bed, shrinking into a yellowed quilt. Mother and the children waded in the garden leaves and plucked off the heads of squash and tomatoes, ripped hairy potatoes out of the dark. But there was no meat on the table.