June 15

Bones Hurt When They Have Flesh on Them by Gary L. McDowell

Julie: Holy mackerel. Okay, anyone who knows me would know that this poem is simply going to be one of those poems that I adore with all of my shriveled little heart. I could give some people 100 poems and say, "Pick which one you think I'd like the best" and I can guarantee you those people would pick this poem. That means I'm predictable, but sometimes I'm predictable in a really good way. And sometimes, dammit, I get to fall in love with a poem. Bones, birds, God, death, you can't beat that with a stick.

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Fall by Bob Hicok

Julie: I still can't tell if it's me or the poems. Somedays, I like all of them. Other days, none. This poem just delights me, and that final line is perfect. I love the repetition in this, the off-balance imagery. I didn't even notice the quotation marks at first, which usually toss me out of a poem. (I just tried writing a poem with dialogue. It was... not good.) But this is. Good. Excellent example of poetry being as much in the how as the what.

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My Name Is Donald by Donald Revell

Julie: After two poems that felt almost designed for me, I'll end with one that is aiming at a different audience altogether. I like individual lines, but the whole never came together for me, though it tries, and the end is strong.

That is the end of my hayride with oblivion.

I dunno.