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Francisco Aragón’s translation of Francisco X. Alcaron’s homoerotic poem, “Asleep You Become a Continent,” portrays one lover watching another sleep.

Conor Kerr’s poem looks at a dystopian scene: a city rewilded, the bones of Indigenous ancestors regenerating and reclaiming what was taken.

Have you ever said the worst thing to the closest person to you? Valencia Robin’s poem is about such a moment. Shock follows. What else?

Eugenia Leigh’s poem about how a dung beetle inspired her to about-turn and walk back through the door she’d just stormed out of.

It can be hard to believe your eyes sometimes. Here, a poet sees hospitals where previously there had been picnics, and tries to bear witness.

Who has the last word on a man whose life was taken from him? A poet remembers him with love; gives the last word to beauty.

A poet writes a sonnet to his wife, whose lifelong love of painting keeps him watching.

How do you feel when someone established speaks? Do you resent them? Or are you the established? This poem resets that energy, and focuses it.

A list of seemingly unassociated events unfolds to hold an extraordinary moment of self discovery and release.

Farmers and poets are placed alongside each other in a poem praising hands that dug, planted, and cooked; and the hands that write about those hands.