By Elaine Verdill Not quite Pompeii or Vesuvius erupting but the smoke pours across the valley with the same dense intensity, all green to gray and the sunlight disappears It’s not Mt. St. Helens again, no ash on the ground, but motes in the...
Emily Lake Hansen is joining Minerva Rising Press as our new Poetry Editor. Emily is the author of the chapbook The Way the Body Had to Travel (dancing girl press, 2014). Her poetry and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Nightjar Review, Atticus Review,...
By Jenn Powers he cleans his fingernails with a knife & cooks bone soup fresh kill from the forest blood flecks mud-caked construction boots late afternoon light purple now cools the surface of work benches ...
By Anne Fox Like Simone de Beauvoir, I have compared housework to the torture of Sisyphus. Yet once in a while, when an afternoon turns golden, I remember the outcome of an irresistible impulse. Despite my many years of kinship with a clothes dryer, long...
By Heather Graham Those nicks were just normalcy, and burns a bargaining plea for a life that tucked truth away behind hollowed apathy. Hanging hope upon the rope of ambient ambition, she washed out in the white sounds of lack of recognition....
By Charnjit Gill Broken I’m proud of being broken Only those brave enough to take something apart will ever understand how the pieces go together Because when you build yourself again—it will be better Better at handling pressure Because you...
By Alyssa Harmon the cool breeze asking so politely to see what’s under her dress the gust of angry wind who thinks he’s entitled to the skin underneath *** Alyssa Harmon Alyssa Harmon is a junior at the University of South...
By Emily Shearer, Poetry Editor, Minerva Rising Press “It was a changeling season,” writes Rita Banerjee in “Atlantis,” just one of the many wholly immersive and well-knit poems that form her newest collection, Echo in Four Beats, released last month...
By Ashley Gonzalez Light trickles through cracked walls, dancing with dim shadows over dusty floors. My eyes follow follow follow, Spirit hollow hollow hollow, cleared out years ago by cold hearted foes and rows with Self and Other. Lovers of mine...
By Sophia Kiang This has been a circularly beautiful night. We parked in the power plant and Jesus and Mary were waiting for us, so close. Switching gas stations, red light district leather, full of love for the ways that you lie. Soon I would be...
