Aaina’s mom collects shiny things like a magpie. The one time Aaina sneaked me into her house, I walked past rows of gold photo frames, silver handicraft elephants and raindrop chandeliers.
You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.
“I saw you by the river last night,” Amy says, her eyes still closed and half-covered by strands of almond-brown hair. “Why didn’t you follow me?”
They laid out their sweat-stained clothing while the geyser was quiet, placid. They backed away and waited for her to erupt.
There was no doubt in Bea’s mind that they referred to the geyser as “she.”
It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone, returned to the God of metals.
Too Tired For Sunshine is a photobook by Hobart's own Tara Wray, to published by Yoffy Press in March 2018.
From the publisher: "In Too Tired for Sunshine, Tara Wray confronts depression by
After being hospitalized in 1968 / for an aortic aneurysm, Rothko’s doctor / prescribed that he only paint and draw / on mediums less than three feet tall.
And what is essential for me to believe is that / the plants themselves were changed by Joan, / that bathing with her in the light and fragrance
spirits in the trees / hush love hush love / go’on fly home
I am glad to report that the Great Iowa State Fair Haiku Contest was a roaring success.
On this poorly planned excursion I had a bucket of coffee and exactly one CD – my brother’s copy of Death Cab’s then brand new Narrow Stairs.
It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?
A man spills a red solo cup down my shirt like hands. Hands bury in my skin. The speakers bury in my skin. I have never felt farther from the sky, or from my own spit.
I smile into the mirror. There is lipstick on my front teeth. I don’t rub it off.
every great sadness has occurred because someone / decided fate with their bare hands.
Welcome to Hobart Photo Stories, a one stop shop for photos that will excite the brain, the eye and the heart.
Jennifer Loeber's pictures will remind you of your painful teenage years and
You’ll wake up on Labor Day and argue with the people you’re carpooling with over when to leave.
my body is an american / casket, shove the corpses / through my eyesockets til they spill / from my mouth
When my children walk by, it will be like looking into the sun. Your children will have to bow their heads. My children’s eyes will be the color of electric blue icebergs.
Now here I am. The same fucking predicament all over. The universe testing to see what I'll do.
I want to walk in where I walk in & not think about me or you or anyone else we know—I want my recycling to be perfect.
She didn’t spend her senior year serving soft serve and saving for a bus ticket to Los Angeles when she turned eighteen to end up riding a tandem bike around the park with some guy whose shorts were too short.
my angst is still young / and highly flammable / something interrupted / meant to be read out of order / one chord change to another
Hades was like the other men Evie had requested favors of; he asked Evie to explain herself before he believed that she wanted what she said she wanted.
