Emily Alexander is a writer, a clumsy waitress, and an older sister. Her work has been featured in Vending Machine Press, NAILED Magazine , and Radar Poetry , and she was recently awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize at the University of Idaho.
Along the back side of a house
in California, the yard is green and wild
with weeds and my parents are young
enough to fool themselves into love or something
it might stem from. They call to each other
from different rooms, their names like held
things, despite the shifting warmth of June,
the breeze sifting through screened windows—(More …)
i am sweating, & have been since
france. the fabric pressed
against my lower back is damp, but unnoticed
among the small unnoticings
of strangers photographing the light of venice as it slips
into the river. i feel up
walls just to touch
some kind of skin, & i’m lost again, leaking
around corners & trying not to ache
for my own home’s small evening
glow. i suppose this
is what people write postcards about, wish you
were here, & here i am, pushing(More …)