Things Made of Brass

In this poem, Liz Marlow speaks to the fear of bullets killing our loved ones. “I know the unlikeliness / of a bullet / shot into the air / killing / my children . . . ”

CAMP HAPPINESS

They were going to separate—she wanted to and he was done fighting her—but before that there was Dylan’s bar mitzvah, and before that was now: this weekend in the rolling hills beyond Oakland with similarly bereaved Jewish strangers.

Coywolf

Hebrew, Lizavetta claimed, was the holiest and most beautiful language in the world. Alexey trusted her in most things, but he knew for a fact this couldn’t be so, because Lermontov had written his poems in Russian.