Glass Poetry Press

@glasspoetry

Publisher of Glass Chapbook Series, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and Crucible: An Online Reading Series. Subs always free. Posts by anthonyframe.bsky.social www.glass-poetry.com Glass Poets Starter Pack:

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Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 2d

🚨 🚨 AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT 🚨 🚨 (spoiler: every Glass chapbook is currently on sale because of reasons) Soooo... apparently, there's a limit to how many poems (plus photos and audio) I'm able to publish with my web hosting plan. (the number, fwiw, is 1,644 😲) I reached that max last Wednesday.

Photo from the Glass web hosting service showing 100% of disk storage used

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 5d

Today on Glass! "Elegy wrapped in the bookends of an Aubade" by Christopher Sturdy! Read the whole poem here: www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Christopher Sturdy

Elegy wrapped in the bookends of an aubade

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 9d

Anyway, back to trying to hang these shelves😬

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 12d

Today on Glass! "Hush" by Kathryn Reese! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Kathryn Reese

Hush

There are secrets in this house like organza
curtains they move, swell up with the afternoon

breeze. They filter the light, slow the movement
of air, they do nothing for the humidity.

This might be your earliest memory: you have skin,
you have sweat, your fingers contain oils

that will spoil everything. You also
make too much noise, you must

sit here and watch the curtains dance
and shadows making runes on the opposite wall.

Only a stormbird dares to call out
for what it wants: a cool change, rain.

Crying won’t get you what you want.
You want to touch the curtains, not just

with your fingers but to wrap yourself
up in them, to feel the lace hug

your shoulders, your back, your neck,
to feel the soft creases against your face

to see through the weave and maybe
the curtains would dance with you,

twirling and billowing out from your waist
you, on your toes, the prettiest dancer, a sunbeam.

The stormbird calls again.
The curtains are sucked back

against the flyscreen. You have left
a sweaty fingerprint on the windowsill dust.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 19d

Today on Glass! "Epistle to the Fallen Nestling" by Jenny Maaketo! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Jenny Maaketo

Epistle to the Fallen Nestling

My husband promised you were not an omen.
The day before Rhet’s birth, all mouth gaped open,

you cried blind-born for Mother’s hearth and meal.
I laddered up, recloched you, but — repealed

by Mother Thrasher’s swoop — you fell again.
Then prey to cold and open stone chilblain,

you lay like lace, a morsel for remorse.
What kind of mother eats her young? Divorces

weaker kin from kin? My pulse so haunted
by tourniquet words like: Dad, he never wanted

you. The vein Mom can’t unsay. Forgive
me — my never-fledge, your soul so ortive —

before the light of sun and birth renamed me
Mother — you fostered me from breast to halo-wing.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 23d

FIRST SET OF COPIES OF UNCLENCH BY MARYLYN TAN!! (plus Thelma and Louise, the office tarantulas) www.glass-poetry.com

A whole bunch of copies of Unclench by Marylyn Tan (plus Thelma and Louise, the office tarantulas)

dirty bird by Marylyn Tan, from Unclench

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 25d

🚨 🚨 COVER REVEAL!! 🚨 🚨 Unclench by Marylyn Tan is now available for pre-order! $7.50 (including s/h) gets you 38 pages of queer witchy wonders. Do not sleep on this incredible collection! www.glass-poetry.com

The cover of Unclench by Marylyn Tan, which is a montage of awesomeness

Pre-order Unclench $7.50 (s/h included)

Unclench would love to not be like other volumes of poetry written in four months on an exchange semester in a strange-familiar country but may unfortunately still be a disappointment to you. On one hand, Unclench is a long idiot gibber about losing the one person in the world who can still rein you in. On the other, it is a series of quick sketches with a half-awake hand of social contradictions, getting off and getting on on unequal footing, and attempts to mute the destructive thought process. It is a first step towards repairing a broken narrative of the self. It is fuelled by spite and sponsored by a need to return the self back to the self. It is waiting for you.

www.glass-poetry.com

Marylyn Tan author photo

Unclench would love to not be like other volumes of poetry written in four months on an exchange semester in a strange-familiar country but may unfortunately still be a disappointment to you. On one hand, Unclench is a long idiot gibber about losing the one person in the world who can still rein you in. On the other, it is a series of quick sketches with a half-awake hand of social contradictions, getting off and getting on on unequal footing, and attempts to mute the destructive thought process. It is a first step towards repairing a broken narrative of the self. It is fuelled by spite and sponsored by a need to return the self back to the self. It is waiting for you.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· 26d

Today on Glass! "I’ve Gone Liminal" by Sarah Brockhaus! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Sarah Brockhaus

I’ve Gone Liminal

The blinds turn the streetlights
to lattice across your face. I want to call you
beautiful but I slip, tell you I wish

I was a camera because you look
like want. Understand how my hand
brushing the hair from your eyes isn’t

intimacy, it’s Sorry. When I kiss you it’s still,
like magic. You cry so I watch
the light patterns and breath feels

the same as waking in the middle
of the night at seven years old. Do you hear
the voices through the walls like drowning?

There is a bridge in my hometown that crosses state lines
and if you stand in the middle you get to be both
at once. I threw a pumpkin off at 3am. It hit the post and became

millions before the dark water took it, every little piece. I don’t
know what that means but I watched it become
something else and I didn’t say sorry then, either. I just held

it, a cold whisper in my mouth. When you call me beautiful, press
your eyes against me like a body, I feel like a child. Yesterday
we were eating grapefruit in the kitchen and I held each slice

up to the window like stained glass. I want to say something true
but the words don’t exist yet. If I kiss you, it isn’t
a promise. This is muting. A way to observe without being

begged into it. When we talk, I watch
from the ceiling. I can read us like a tarot deck, can prescribe
you crystals to replace my hands. If there were a pill to end

leaving, I would take as many as I could find.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jul 15

Today on Glass! "The Golden Triangle" by Kimberly Gibson-Tran! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Kimberly Gibson-Tran

The Golden Triangle

Your elbows angle around me
as we stare out at the Mekong,
the little waves that lift little boats
from shores of Laos and Myanmar.

As we stare out at the Mekong
we think about flowers, milk smuggled
from shores of Laos and Myanmar
in the utter dark of the night water.

We think about flowers, milk smuggled
into veins, rivers in the body, spreading
in the utter dark of the night water.
It’s December, a cool wind moves

into veins, rivers in the body, spreading
over our crispy, condensed-milk roti.
It’s December, a cool wind moves
but can’t touch or tangle this golden light.

Over our crispy, condensed-milk roti
you and I fight for the last sweet bite
but can’t touch or tangle this golden light,
that shaky spiral of want infinite as

you and I fight for the last sweet bite.
Your elbows angle around me,
that shaky spiral of want infinite as
the little waves that lift little boats.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jul 8

Today on Glass! "Gospel" by Lyn Li Che! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Lyn Li Che

Gospel

your scent settled in my mouth
like a prayer. i don’t know
why i said later when i meant
this song, these strobe lights,
your taste knotting my throat.
i guess i didn’t yet believe
in yes or a life without skirting
around my sutures. eyes open,
i wanted to meet you inside
that red-blooded moment. to hurt.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jul 1

Today on Glass! "Volcanoes Are Openings" by K. Degala-Paraíso! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

K. Degala-Paraíso

Volcanoes Are Openings

Gouge out my swollen stomach from under my ribs
I want to be filled with lava

Churn my melted skin into magma
I will learn to launch fireballs from my lips

Keep me dormant
I will never feel cold or fear again

Lay flowers at my feet
Fortified by an earthy fever

Or flightless birds, or feathers
Or red rock fists

Or apologies
I hope I won’t miss my ashless eyes

From my father

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jun 24

Today on Glass! "Sketch of a Girl as a Sentence" by Matti BenLev (@mattibl.bsky.social)! Read the whole poem here: www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Matti BenLev

Sketch of a Girl as a Sentence

A girl I once knew wrote a poem about a girl
who begged for food on her hands and knees. Who begged
to be fed, mouth open, teeth chipped. In the poem,
the girl stands, finds that crushed glass had pressed
webbed mosaics into the soft of her kneecaps. She kneels
again. She gets fed. She does not feel
full. The girl I knew

tells me about the girl from the poem, the girl
who swallowed sentences in teaspoons, the girl
who whispered metered incantations to the sores
on her feet, the girl whose white tears turned
to spoiled milk behind her hazel
dinner plates. But I knew

my friend was the girl she wrote about, asking me
to read her poem, to which I commented,
This needs work, and her eyes narrowed,
face dropped. She thought

I’d be the one to feed her.

xxx

The first time I speak to the girl
from the poem, I ask her to
stand up. I pat the crown
of her head. Her crown
made of crooked sentences. My fingers

leave smoketrails in her straw-
berry hair. I watch blood
stitch a trail on the concrete
outside the thin arm of the gray church
where we meet. Where she asks
me for help, where she tells me she can’t

stay sober. The raspberry
lines look like a crooked outline
of a girl I could never
reassure. Though maybe
I didn’t try hard
enough.

xxx

The girl from the poem meets
me in a coffee shop. Caramel pinpricks pock
her parchment skin. She shows me
a short story she wrote about a girl....

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jun 17

Today on Glass! "Accidental" by Joshua Zeitler! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Joshua Zeitler

Accidental

The wrecked truck on the roadside seemed a film prop,
balled-up tin foil on blank black tile,

meaningless to the panning camera, all-consuming

to the auteurist eye behind it. Next morning I learned
there were no casualties, but it struck me—

that space between discoveries, in which I drove

the dark highway home, ate cubed watermelon
from a bamboo bowl, danced to Dehd

alone in my fenced-in back yard by starlight, slept

like a colicky baby. I brushed my teeth before breakfast.
I keep picturing it there, discarded, decorative somehow,

the body’s bespoke seams sparkling in the high beams

as if it had never traveled anywhere, had been placed
just so for me to find, to slip in my mind’s back pocket

and occasionally pat, worried I’ve forgotten it, like a key

mostly obeyed

then thrillingly not.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jun 10

Today on Glass! "A Love Affair" by Jordan Cobb! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Jordan Cobb

A Love Affair

This morning (which was really afternoon)
the kettle sang on the stove while I tug-of-warred
with the dog. D laughed & asked for his t-shirt back,
handed me the half-empty bottle of Beaujolais
from the night before. Filled a glass of water
at the sink before he asked for my advice
about open relationships & The Other Woman
he’s been seeing. My heart clenched
like my pussy when he pushed me onto the bed sheets.
Flipped the page in the magazine in front of me,
told him he has to say something to her.
Doesn’t have to be details about my hands on his chest,
how we slept late, wrapped in a sailor’s knot
around each other, pulled tight like a noose.
She doesn’t need to know I kiss him
in grocery stores, over pints of Guinness in pubs,
in front of the pup; how, this morning,
when he put me on all fours & slid inside, I worried
whose name he would say. At the coffee shop,
he orders & I pay.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Jun 3

Today on Glass! "Ship of These us" by Nino McQuown (@allsoils.bsky.social)! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Nino McQuown

Ship of Theseus

Sometimes, she says, it just happens to you.
A gift from wherever gifts come from.
A tooth growing out of your whole grown gum,
next in line bone for making mush with, a body. I
could sleep for days. I’d have new cells for you, or,
let’s be honest, I’m their owner. When
I knew your name, I knew it long enough to close it in
a little blastocyst, see it divide. Out loud
I must have said something incredibly
stupid despite chance after chance to distinguish
myself. Instead I am continually forgiven.
Let’s be clear. I was the owner of all these apologies and
I was also the priest in this confessional. I said: Hail!
and: Full of grace. And I believed in my own fundamental
goodness even after that time I asked a jail-broke,
homesick ex-communicant if she’d been grateful for
the paper in her cell. I think I said, “at least.” I who
can’t go for half a day without your gaze.
Inside my pink ear hole’s a torture factory
inherited on my mother’s side, creative, innovative,
efficient, optimized, precise, an elite rail
and also handsome, I’ve got everything I need almost
to be this cannibal. I’m born for. It’s a gift,
or was. I’ve been asleep a lot since then. Maybe
I’m different now. But isn’t it that every egg
was in there, mother before mother at her birth. Forever’s
long enough to build a nest in and return to it
each Spring. Return to me and my
remaining millions. Like a baby
I just wanted you to touch them, hand
them back.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· May 27

Today on Glass! "In the Woods" by Kristin LaFollette! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Kristin LaFollette

In the Woods

I

It was late July.
I had a cold
and a cast
on my right arm.
I hadn’t slept.

Someone called me Christina.

What I wanted to say but didn’t:
I am someone’s daughter.
I am someone’s wife.
I wasn’t born in the summer. I wasn’t made for this heat.

II

The room was filled with plants & I found one in a white pot
that I wanted to keep for myself.
A man told me to be careful when I bent to lift it,
as if he could sense the thinness of my sutured skin,
ready to break open and bleed honey
and meltwater
all over the floorboards —

III

With our matriarch gone first,
I questioned if longevity was earned
or if it was inherent, bloodborne.

I didn’t know the answer,
so I made my body into a shadowbox,
clothed myself in hairwork jewelry:
an altar of memory, a prayer for defense
and preservation —

IV

If I’m being honest, I shouldn’t have taken any of the plants:
I’ve never been any good at
keeping them alive —

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· May 20

Today on Glass! "on turning 27 on the 27th" by Amanda Conover (@amandaconover.bsky.social)! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Amanda Conover

on turning 27 on the 27th

face to face with the lucky year, chosen
at 17 among choked knots of dreams
weighed straight to the underworld.

these days they call it a golden birthday,
though the term wasn’t there when you
chose it as the year of dereliction.

when you started streaming Lana Del Rey
and Marina Diamandis instead of going
to sleepovers or Hollister or the movies.

back in the years when the only streamers
on your birthday were red and the cake
tasted both too sweet and not sweet enough.

when, after years of that, you followed
your dream knots straight to Hades, or tried to.
woke under blinding fluorescents, started

sightseeing all the kinds of therapist decor:
the flatpressed lies wrapped in flowery words,
the oversimplifications, the unironically ironic.

then you got a few degrees, worked your way
into the corporate hellscape of late capitalism.
moved states, watered moonflowers, started

skateboarding down pebble-struck roads for fun.
learning the mathematical maze of astrology charts,
of calming amethyst and cleansing selenite.

writing poems about what it feels like underwater.
about coming up for breath at 27, face to face
with the weight of bloomed overworld dreams.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· May 13

Today on Glass! "Future" by Jill Michelle! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Jill Michelle

Future

n. That period of time in which our affairs prosper, our friends are true and our happiness is assured.
— Ambrose Bierce

Put the baby back in. Do not let her fall one February like a wishing star past that faulty chassis
your pelvic floor, into the ER doctor’s awaiting palms — nineteen weeks too soon, six

before they’ll call her viable, bother with the split-screen monitors of baby’s heartbeat
and yours, the incubators that you expected to find, those Plexiglass boats of hope, sailing

whisper-weight babies to life, missing from this ward. In January, stitch the cracked
cervix shut, repair the broken uterus, wait on hospital beds, your bed, the sofa for a

month, watching bedrest’s hook-slow seconds bleed into lemon-sour hours on wall clocks.
Try not to relive losing the baby before. Retract your a/c-shriveled feet from the theropod

grip of the OB’s swiveling stirrups. Wipe away worries, tears over the tweeded doctor’s
genetic report. Report to specialists weekly: shades of blood, how much. Notice your partner

bite nails to the quick. Breathe. Don’t panic at that first drop, tabasco-cap red, weaving a daisy
chain of dread through December, the spot last year’s GYN said was normal for some, probably

nothing. Look forward to that bewitching moment, the fuchsia feeling of her
flips, confetti explosions in your stomach. Think you’ve past the danger

point at fifteen weeks, that this time things will work
tell the family at Thanksgiving dinner, toast to the future.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· May 6

Today on Glass! "With a Forecast for More" by Joannie Stangeland! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Joannie Stangeland

With a Forecast for More

If summer crowded the roadsides
with dusty umbels, the Queen Anne’s lace

a frilly garden party dress or antique
handwork from a yard sale,

fall wields the rain’s steady hammers,
constructs the strange comfort I find

in watching the creek swell—not a flood,
but a feeling rushed between the banks.

If we keep our eyes on the rivers,
will our grief be ferried downstream,

or is this feeling a hole sunk in mud,
a scar that mars the morning

the way rain scribbles down windows
and blurs the glass, the way a word

can wound the silence in a room?
Or is the silence the wound?

The wild carrot now crumples, clouds
of withered fists, ghost homes.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Apr 29

Today on Glass! "Flood Year" by Brittany N. Jaekel! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Brittany N. Jaekel

Flood Year

a cracked window becomes a sieve. in the house’s
exposed fascia: dark wounds of water.

fields become mudflats become shallow lakes.

the thaw. the hoarfrost.
the growth. the recession. the sudden

exponentiating surge.

the river goes still at twilight
when the cold continues its nightly
visit: black blanket.

now the old yellow stalks
multiply, reflect; next,
the trees: bundles of veins,
twice-tangled.

the white sky bandage covers
each field.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Apr 22

Today on Glass! "Radio Hopi" by Craig Martin Getz! Read the whole poem here: www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Craig Martin Getz

Radio Hopi

From somewhere over the bluff
the radio signal comes and goes;

just what I was hoping for, being
an ambassador of sorts at this wheel.

See? They’re there.

East on Highway 98, north on Interstate 160;
everywhere has been the Navajo Nation

for several hours and will continue to be so
well into tomorrow. From my home abroad,

I glance at website after website of tribal tension,
aware that the verb glance is a gross

simplification, as if opening Windows might
freshen the memory of an ignored heritage

which, by extension, is part of my body,
a country I’m barely aware of.

Words add up and zooming out on the map,
I come to the conclusion that size matters.

From somewhere over this bluff to our right,
between dips that stretch and allow

the Hopi signal to get out of the miniscule
reservation engulfed by the Navajo’s, there’s

a faint drumming on hide, a breathy-heaving

of elderly men, channeled through
this 4-door, horse-powered Ouija board.

They’re there; their

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Apr 15

Today on Glass! "Paper Trail XXVIII" by Jason Fraley! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Jason Fraley

Paper Trail XXVIII

Briars and Bradford pears ripple. Out here — locals call this teenage joyride haunt TNT — the military buried munitions in small domes. The enemy would not bomb a land where bridges fall on their own.

The gravel road gathers its own resistance. Chugholes with mud-riven bottoms. Ever-lengthening grass inspects the sedan’s undercarriage. Curls of chain link rust jagged. A small audience of red eyes surveil: deer, racoon, rabbits, a stray Mothman or wayward sandhill crane.

Someone’s hand fumbles below my seatbelt, tears a page from a chapter now revised. I hear soft scraping as if she is drawing the night from memory. When we stop, cut the engine, the darkness is a shade of aftermath. The moon’s craters consume TNT’s soft dimples. She unzips my jacket, stuffs my page back inside. Pencil lead so thick it snuffs out my frail light.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Apr 13

Congrats and good luck to our 2026 Best New Poets nominees! Hannah Han "Ars Non Poetica" www.glass-poetry.com/journal/2025... Kirstin Lueke "one billion flowers" www.glass-poetry.com/journal/2025...

Nominations

Best New Poets 2026

Hannah Han

Ars Non Poetica

Kristin Lueke

one billion flowers

Glass: A Journal of Poetry

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Apr 8

Today on Glass! "They Say Her Cry is Heard Near Water" by Alex Carrigan (@carriganak.bsky.social)! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Alex Carrigan

They Say Her Cry is Heard Near Water

— Brandon Som

If she left her shoes on the beach,
they’ve since been carried away
in the tide to build a new home
for coral to grow onto.
If she left a letter on the beach,
the tide washed away the ink,
letting it darken the seaweed
drying on the sand.
If there were sirens nearby,
they stopped their singing to listen,
then left the reef because they
wouldn’t sing over her anguish.
If turtles hatched on the shore that night,
they probably marched in procession
behind her, then entered the sea
knowing nothing but fear.
But maybe it wasn’t a beach,
nor a river,
nor a lake
where her cry was first heard.
Perhaps the wailing began long before that,
when she took her first gasp of air
and decided she’d rather be in
the warm water than
live without it,
so maybe it was always calling for her,

she decided to match the sound of the waves
before she became one herself.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Apr 1

Today on Glass! "Swim" by Derek N. Otsuji! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Derek N. Otsuji

Swim

I slip under —
pulled by the amniotic tug of memory
— the arms remember that they were oars, legs
fuse into a fluke, webbing flares between
digits of the hand. Sunlight on the body’s
smooth vessel, rippling — I descend the shaft
of time, and from the glass elevator
step out into dream. The breath encapsulates
a shimmering wish, vanishes on contact
with the upper air. I am a blue-lipped fish
moving down corridors dissolving into
transparency where all pathways
— in all
directions now open before me
— as if everything were still possible,
the imagined other life, suspended.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Mar 25

Today on Glass! "THE LITANY FOR HEALING OF BODY IMAGE" by Nathan Fako (@nfako.bsky.social)! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Nathan Fako

THE LITANY FOR HEALING OF BODY IMAGE

I hate that backwards man in the mirror with the uneven brows. He looks back at me, thirty years old now. He moves when I move. Flabby. I want to be clean, so I browse the internet. He browses the internet. No bisexual porn tonight. We work together to find a ninety-nine cent .pdf file for sale by Emily Wilson Ministries: THE LITANY FOR HEALING OF BODY IMAGE. I purchase it. He purchases it. I get on my knees on the carpet in the dark next to the bed. His phone makes a holy halation in the bedroom. I turn on healing frequencies. He tries not to hum along. I begin to read: Forgive me, Jesus, for the times I have looked in the mirror and hated your creation. He speaks in tandem with me. I want to be clean, so I continue to recite: Grant me the serenity to accept that you made my body to be different from the bodies of my friends. He starts to smell different. Of sage. I want to praise you, Jesus, for the hands you gave me. When I glance at my hands, my fingers wrapping the phone in the dark, clutching it like a torch, they are his hands. Of want. Of wider fingers. I want to beg of you, Jesus, the courage to look away from unrealistic body standards. I want to ask for your grace, Jesus, please allow me to love the fact that you make no mistakes. He wants a cigarette. He smells like them. I don’t want to feel his hands on me anymore, so I pray to Jesus for forgiveness. If I want to be clean, I won’t see my brother’s face in my face in the mirror. Our face. I won’t nightmare of the trailer. I won’t feel his hands. I won’t go somewhere else, while with my body he does what he did. I want to be clean. I want to ask your forgiveness, Jesus, for the times. For my sacred temple. For his sacred temple. Our sacred temple recites THE LITANY FOR HEALING OF BODY IMAGE in the bedroom in the dark while our fiance is asleep, but there is a halo around the phone, but there is a number of angels playing cards at the kitchen table, but w…

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Mar 18

Today on Glass! "When I try to explain, I say, immature eggs" by grace (ge) gilbert! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

grace (ge) gilbert

When I try to explain, I say, immature eggs
are glued to my walls. And I think of my
lake, sitting next to it, the thought of
wading into the water to become shiny
again. A stone in the sidewalk that looks
like a woman’s painted fingernail. A swell
of testosterone. When the roses start
to harden, they look face down, as if
they are retreating. My dark, bleeding
hallway, its half-toppled ionic columns. I
say, there was once something here. But I don’t
know what it was.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Mar 12

Today on Glass! "today, i’ve started to roam" by Emma Johnson-Rivard (@blackcattales.bsky.social)! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html

Emma Johnson-Rivard

today, i’ve started to roam

our homes understood the clock and
subsequent circumstance. we filled
our walls with books and damaged animals,
an echo to our own scars. this is mine,
i explained once. this is safe.

but remember, said the poet,
that art cannot save the whole world. i
know this, too.

many surrendered. half didn’t have enough
to survive anyway. it didn’t have to be
this way but

we are still here. beyond gravestones,
today is a badge of honor.

Like all poetry about politics, this one is both entirely too specific and entirely, indulgently, too vague. In discussions with an artist friend of mine, we came to the conclusion that we're neither naive nor young enough to believe that art will save the world. It's a beautiful sentiment but it doesn't bear out. There's real work involved with that shit. Nonetheless, art has a role. Art can, and should, speak to the circumstances of our lives and the work we're attempting. I don't believe in a hopeless world. We are still here for a reason.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Mar 10

We're thrilled to announce the 2026-2027 Glass Chapbook Series! Look for these amazing chapbooks by Marylyn Tan, Slater by the Sea, and Penny Wei over the next 12 months! www.glass-poetry.com/chapbooks/se...

The 2026-2027 Glass Chapbook Series

Marylyn Tan: Unclench

Slater by the Sea: GAY POEM WITH BIRD

Penny Wei: Her Other Fragile Inheritances

Slater By The Sea is a flicker on the horizon. They are the 2025 winner of The Pinch's Page Prize in Nonfiction. Their poetry collection, GAY POEM WITH BIRD, was a finalist for CutBank's 2025 Chapbook Contest.

Penny Wei is from Shanghai and Massachusetts. She can be seen on West Trestle Review, New Plains Review, The Central Dissent and elsewhere.

Glass Poetry Press@glasspoetry· Mar 4

Today on Glass! "asystole" by Neal Allen Shipley! www.glass-poetry.com/journal.html