Find and share the perfect poems.
Good was shot in the face three times.
Good was shot in ICE-cold-blood.
The President stated that she weaponized her car, but Good
did no such thing.
Good was a poet. Good can come of poets.
Today, Good can’t breathe either.
Used with the permission of the author.
This is a poem on my other’s body,
I mean, my mother’s body, I mean the one
who saved her braid of blue-black hair
in a drawer when I was little.
Meaning one I could lean against —
against not in resistance. Fuzzy dress
of wuzzy one. Red lipstick one.
Kitchen one. Her one to me,
a golden shovel
The whale already taken got away: the moon alone
—Yosa Buson, translated from the Japanese by Hiroaki Sato
A bandana. A cardinal. An apple
No. 2 lead pencil—the mechanical pencil, now empty—appears more vivid
A box of toothpicks—now that I'm baking bran muffins