Sunday, August 20, 2023

JUSTIN EVANS—"AFTER READING THE POEMS OF TADA CHIMAKO" (Issue 26)

AFTER READING THE POEMS OF TADA CHIMAKO

Pine trees announce their death shedding 
all their needles— spending their reserves 
like a child’s allowance 

New forest growth requires decades of patience 
waiting for rot to break away from the canopy, 
letting sunlight rest on the ground 

and sometimes it takes fire 

In my dreams I forget my own name while 
running a maze in the darkened dirty streets of Paris 
until I wake in a stranger’s bed 

These things are the same 
nothing dividing one from the other 
all answering to the same name



ABOUT THE POET 

Justin Evans was born and raised in Utah. He served in the Army and returned to 
Utah for his education. For the past two decades, he has lived in rural Nevada with 
his wife and sons where he teaches at the local high school. He is the author of ten 
books of poetry. Most recently are Cross Country (Wordtech, 2019), written with 
the poet Jeff Newberry, and All The Brilliant Ideas I've Ever Had (Kelsay Books, 
2020). In early 2022, Justin was awarded an artist fellowship from The Nevada 
Arts Council.



ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW 


We loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), and we want an 
opportunity to better hear our contributors. We're featuring audio recordings of 
poems from our pages, read by the poet. 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.

Sunday, August 6, 2023

SEAN CHO A.—A CUBE WHO IS GROWING. AND GROWING UNSURE OF HIMSELF. #8" (Issue 26)

A CUBE WHO IS GROWING. AND GROWING UNSURE OF HIMSELF. #8

mid april: thirty five degrees. in the absence of clouds:
the sun is showing even it has limits. two young lovers
hold bare hands beside the lake: ignoring the logic of 
pockets. we've already shown our appreciation for pockets. 
holding everything we hold so dear that we must bring it 
along. didn't know what to give them for a gift: yesterday's 
dinner mints stink-y-ing in the heat: a case study the limitations
of objections/the space between object and the representative thank 
you. it's a thankless job. not unlike the jobs of all the other 
object-things. the screams of the june grass/the farm cat 
who wished to never go inside. on the day that a mouth emerges
from the vased-daylily we will have a new language to learn. 
i imagine i'm sorry & thank you will get all tangled up on our tongues. 



ABOUT THE POET 

Sean Cho A. is the author of American Home (Autumn House 2021) winner of 
the Autumn House Press chapbook contest. His work can be future found or 
ignored in Copper Nickel, Prairie Schooner, The Massachusetts Review, Nashville 
Review, among others. Sean is a graduate of the MFA program at The University 
of California Irvine and a PhD Student at the University of Cincinnati. He is the 
editor in chief of The Account



ABOUT SUGAR HOUSE REVIEW 


We loved reading the work that we’ve published (clearly), and we want an 
opportunity to better hear our contributors. We're featuring audio recordings of 
poems from our pages, read by the poet. 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.