My father couldburn holes in the cloudswith the power of his mind: Watch, he says,looking at the stretchof sky above us, a sheet on the sandbeneath our backs. Right there. He...
I. Heather, in your dream my loved ones were dunking and holding me underwater as treatment. Everyone, you say, seemed to believe this was a good idea. In truth, your...
My three-year-old son asked me where deer sleep. So I took him into a space that is not meant for fathersand sons. There, we found a ritual thathas nothing to...
My doe with the limp is one fawn short since spring.Some time later, in the low moan of a snowstormshe canters back to the woods, alone. Yearly pilgrimage to Ohio—past...
Two of Barnstorm’s poetry readers are graduating from the MFA program this spring; before they head out, Milo and Morgan took the time to share their thoughts on the evolution...
In autumn, a bamboo pole sceptered in his fists, Dad thwacked walnuts from the sleepy domes of trees and my sister and me, five and nine, gathered the fallen in...
The birds confused him.It was their overflowing presenceor their quick movements,or he was color-blindor tone-deaf, one of the senseslacking something, unable quiteto make everything fit.Each one had to have a...
Remember:this is just one seaon one beach on oneplanet in onesolar system in onegalaxy. After thatthe scale increases, sothis is not the last word,and nothing else is talking back.It’s a...
Main Street’s a Cheese Shoppe,Galleries, and a bright brew pubFeaturing pumpkin harvest ale,Free-range chicken, and kale.A retro pharmacy with show globes.The state bank. Beyond Bordeaux.Your candles-only. Your soap-only: Bricks spiked...
Peter Mishler is the author of Fludde (Sarabande, 2018), a book of poems selected for the Kathryn A. Morton prize in poetry by Dean Young, who said, “Fludde makes us feel,...
This morning is wrapped in a sweatshirt, raw and restless it filters through my jacket at the bus stop. Without you here it’s easier to get out of bed. I...