October 27, 2016

A poem from the Fall 2016 issue.

I’ve seen enough of your creation, Lord,
its absurd conceits, the sins of idle men
ripened to gnashing teeth.
October 26, 2016

A poem from the Fall 2016 issue.

Kid comes to see me during office hours, and he says he has
a weekend job at a gas station, and one Saturday, two girls
from French class come by and ask him if he wants to go
October 25, 2016

A poem from the Fall 2016 issue. 

I stand before the little square history
of my cutting board: beet stain, parsley
mark, garlic in the grain that infuses

anything cut open, left soft-side down.
July 19, 2016

Poetry from the Summer 2016 issue. 

We are at the edge of the madness,
sitting and swelling warm under the skin.
So you think that shuffling and press
of bodies against the fence will end?
July 12, 2016

Contemporary fiction writers can play hard for the joke, as if writing to a laugh-track, but Joy Williams’s humor is darker, subtler, more in line with the humor of Faulkner or Isaac Babel: bracing, unsettling.

May 05, 2016

A poem from the Spring 2016 issue.

Two wasps copulate over your back porch—
their wings grate the air above the ochre splotch

where a hawk took down a pigeon last winter
not long after your move into the yellow house

April 14, 2016

A poem from our Spring 2016 issue. 

Home, I follow the roads passing the fruit orchards and the roaring white sheds of honey. The / clouds—always inclined to thunder. The rain travels west from the mountains.

April 07, 2016
A poem from the Spring 2016 issue, inspired by Richard Leo Johnson’s photographs.

The carpets, the paneling, the overstuffed recliner. Chainsaw carving
on the TV, kerosene lantern for thunderstorms, girl

lying on the carpet in her shorts, Converses, ankle socks. TV remote
within reach. Stained glass figures in the panes.
April 05, 2016

A poem from the Spring 2016 issue.

“Here he is, the Amazing Blind Tom . . . / he’s pitched in darkness, exalted through sound / he’s mastered sharp and flat of piano:”

April 05, 2016

Once opened, the book immediately communicates to its reader what she needs to know: Olio is unlike any other book of poetry you have held.