Friday, January 11, 2019



The first time
we rode our bikes
            through the Boston Harbor Hotel’s arch,
                           a big band on the floating stage played
                                      a romantic swing burdened by trombones

and even though everything went to the rent,
the grandiosity of the hotel, the rotunda, the yachts in their slips

was our grandiosity—
                                      we were easily drinking
              champagne while discussing
              Dean Martin’s Ten Thousand Bedrooms

because our belief
                                        in love was earnest and all

we needed—

but now the stage is sinking
with the rest
of our created history:

wistful walks past Alexander Hamilton on Comm Ave,
            lavender lemonades in Copley Square,
                             the Union Oyster House, our initials carved in stall 19.

            Once the rain,
its tiny pressure on your scalp, like ants
                             passing the door of a tobacconist.

Now the superstorm, the surging tides.

Now you and I,
            the satiated bedroom guests we never were,
            (alongside the rest of the humans) wanting
                             more and more from the collapsing ground—


Now Faneuil Hall and every corner
where we met and kissed, where a thousand others met,
             conspired, or exchanged—

             each body believing
                             their plot point the most paramount,
                                        each forgetting history and story emerged

             from the same word:

                                                        Now and always forgetting
                              we build our cities to house myths,
                              our histories to house cities—


             Soon the sea
will claim this reclaimed land,
             sending these few fragments forever

to the drink. Leaving the cities, leaving
             our love
                                                    to become something else.


Tana Jean Welch is the author of Latest Volcano, winner of the 2015 Marsh Hawk Press Poetry Prize. Her poems have appeared in The New York Times, The Southern Review, The Colorado Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Prairie Schooner, and other national literary journals. Born and raised in Fresno, CA, she currently lives in Tallahassee where she is assistant professor of Medical Humanities at the Florida State University College of Medicine.


We’ve loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), so now we want an opportunity to better hear our contributors. We will feature an audio recording of a poem from one of our seven issues, read by the poet and updated every couple of weeks. This an open invitation to all contributors from any of our issues, we were delighted to print your work, now we’re eager to hear it.

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