Our August issue features poems about places and experiences that make us question who we are. In “Days of a Thousand Weathers I: An
—Sergei Korolev in Kolyma Gulag, 1938—1941 This is how Stalin fed us in the gulags: cold and hungry, we became our own fuel.
This morning—wind breathing, ticky tock tack of some small rain. What are these weeds tall as I am with umbels of little white blooms?
Remember that dead whale the neighborhood kids walked all over? And the great white jaw marks— one bite taken after another along the belly