Issue > Poetry


Yanyi is a writer and critic based in Brooklyn, New York. He previously served as a senior editor at Nat. Brut and curatorial assistant at The Poetry Project.


My mother once loved a fish.
He was elegant and ten times
the length of a river.

My mother had a name
like none. The name was
gold and acid and. When
murmured, those tingles.
That is why she stayed
so long and underwater—
the liquid slow,
the fish-washed gentle—
no one prayed for gold
at that scale.

Hives of clam who sucked

her into cold meridians. Open

closing over. House of loose

hair where she slid her name

through weaves of silver.

Fish or waves? The beating bay.
Those arms of fin or man
gathering the gulls.




Tishon Woolcock

Tishon Woolcock


Monica Hand

Monica Hand
Mask of Wires


Xena Semjonova

Xena Semjonova
Htym A