Arya Jenkins

She spies a young blond man with small ferret-like hands raking as she approaches the last trailer in the lot. The great fire is closing in, its smoke rising high just beyond the hill, and she is almost done with her shift. “What are you doing?” she inquires, clipboard pressed to her orange vest as if for protection. “I want my own fire,” says the young man with tiny eyes set close, just as a toothless woman in galoshes, a shift and red bandana emerges from the trailer. “Bader, gimme that thing.

By Mark Statman on December 2, 2020 in Poetry, Spotlight About ten or so years ago I was teaching an introduction to writing poetry course. One of the requirements was that students had to present the work of a living poet not on the syllabus who had published at least two books or the equivalent and that this poet should be someone they really thought the rest of the students studying in the class needed to read. One of the students asked me if she could present John Yamrus.

Selected by Alexis Rhone Fancher, Poetry Editor By Digby Beaumont on October 7, 2020 in Literature, Main Posts Let’s Never Be Apart Late afternoon, I’m sitting alone in the lounge of the Brighton Holiday Inn remembering Ed, when we were kids, how he’d always want to play the Joker to my Batman, Lex Luther to my Superman. I drain my whisky glass. A woman in the doorway stares in my direction. Early forties, low cut top, cropped hair bleached pure white. I look away.