Poetry

Come, let me strain the raspberriestonight, stir the sauce—glassy the sugar,not too tart—pour it, wipe up the crimsonislands and returnto where I learned the revenueof taste. Taste that’s acquired an appetitefor place, rich with accrued mobilities:sun on the slender sill at early d

The editors of America are pleased to present the winner of the 2016 Foley Poetry Award.

I’m tempted to call the woman, say I did not see her car accident,but will listen to her version, find out why she needs a witness.Three telephone poles, three hand-scrawled signsplead for someone who saw the silver Lexus hit her Honda.Her signs remain a week. I imagine she vents to family, fr

The rain in the woods where the fire eruptedmonths ago is abundance too soon, or too late,the blaze causing harm long after.The promise is fulfilled,but not mercifully, the watercoursesdeepening underfoot, charcoal and slurry and soil.The water has no color. It is the empty placebefore the first wor