Issue > Poetry
Grady Chambers

Grady Chambers

Grady Chambers was born and raised in Chicago. Poems of his are forthcoming from Forklift, Ohio and New Ohio Review, and previous work has appeared in Diode Poetry, The Adroit Journal, Ninth Letter, Devil's Lake, Midwestern Gothic and elsewhere. He was a 2015-2017 Wallace Stegner Fellow and currently lives in New York.

Sunday Morning

The weather turned bad and I got happy.
That's wrong—I mean the morning sky

was ash blue, birds on the ground. I mean
not happy but good, not good

but fastened, steady, like every train in the city
was running late, but no one minded.

On 12th Street, tarpaulin swelled
and bowed in wind. Rain drove straight

through a woman's dress. And again
on Hollis, driving: drenched flags, damp black

trees, the leaves dripping
like rinsed hands. I pulled over.

A girl held her mother
by the shoulders on a porch.


Tony Hoagland

Tony Hoagland
Our Sunny Psycho: The Complex Cheerfulness Of Billy Collins


Mel King

Mel King
A Moment, Not An Earthquake


Christopher Stephen Soden

Christopher Stephen Soden
Little Bird