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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The morning of Claire's funeral, I lie naked on the table and wait for her mourners to arrive. Thomas scrapes a knife against whetstone in the kitchen. When he appears above me, the blade glints harsh in his hand. It's all I can see. To minimize the pain, he explains with a paternal smile. I smile too.

The dogs are bored. The children are bored. I was never / a child

At the eastern edge of the City of David archaeological site in Jerusalem, a staircase drops into a cave where the naturally pulsing Gihon Spring burbles up from a bedrock crack. The water runs into a narrow tunnel leading deep within the earth, directly beneath the ruins of the ancient city.

As they headed back into town in Smiley’s pickup, she could only feel like they had all done something wrong, something to be ashamed of. Something they could never talk about again.