Winter, Vol 18.1
James Maynard lives and writes from his hometown of Portland, Oregon. He received his MFA from the University of Alabama. His poetry and reviews have appeared in New Orleans Review, Arch, Permafrost, Blueline, Dialogist, and others. The author of one garden, two children, and numerous chapbooks, he currently runs a sonnet series at jamesmaynard.substack.com.
sipèstisyon If people say your child is beautiful, your child will become ugly. ok, i confess. once, i said fuck you to danny perkins on the last day of kindergarten after a miserable year of being pu
I feel compelled to pick up the baby bird that has died just outside my doorstep this morning. Place her in my hand and rub her toothpick ribs with my thumb. Gently kiss the milky-blue bulbs of her ey
Hey, Future is that you / in the moment / a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate / or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours / kicking joy / to the curbs / of chaos / blessed by Hallmark’s / squa