by Scott Miller Like the famed Mars rovers Spirit and Opportunity, this little project we call The Splinter Generation is rapidly approaching the fourthyear of its six-month projected lifetime. Once an experiment in literary community service, we have burgeoned into…
Poetry by Peycho Kanev
the impossibility of life is in
the beauty is crazy as flower in
Poetry by Phillip B. Williams
Riding home, I spotted a wolf
dead on the road’s shoulder, a streak
of blood gossiped that it had been dragged
from the highway’s flat, black portal and back
onto the thin dimension splitting asphalt and forest.
Poetry by Abigail Templeton
A former lover enters my apartment window and says
“You always did look better in blue.” He starts taking
photographs of my surroundings—an obnoxious habit.
It is night and there is no one left on the block except
him and me, this former lover who is a gate that won’t close.
Poetry by Melissa Carroll
The seatbelt clicks as we listen
to sweet crushing water under tires,
headlights flicking in puddles
where strangers safe in steel shells
intersect and continue moving.
Poetry by Eric Steineger
It’s out there alright, wafting through yards. Making its way
to the pit of your stomach. Perhaps if it were a chainsaw
you’d jump. Not just an aroma. It could be a tiger’s eye
a girlfriend once gave you. Or maybe the object in question is
too wide for a pocket, like a photo album that constellated
Poetry by Lisa Cheby
Peeling apples meticulously, each skin intact, left behind.
Except for the seeds, you devoured the cores, not even extract left behind.
The turtle knows patience. Her movement unheard in whirls of chaos.
She emerges with stillness, the ebb of the Pacific: left behind.
The Splinter Generation is pleased to announce our Best of the Web Nominations for the last year. A big thanks to all our contributors, and a special congratulations to Amber Sparks, LaToya Jordan, and Timothy Marsh!
We’re going to take a well deserved break until the New Year, though we may be posting a bit here and there. x
Poetry by Ocean Vuong
In the hospital room’s white
indifference, a small girl waits
while gloved hands unravel layers
of gauze from her eyes.
She will see for the first time
the objects we’ve limited
through naming. The gauze falls,
Poetry by Matthew Ostapchuk
Beside the boulevard staircase
a sepia flower woman sits, sells
stalks for a nickel, answers you
vacantly, the way a cat might
or mightn’t. Looking at her sideways
one can tell she’s tatters and forgotten.
by Sarah Landenwich
Planning a wedding can at times seem the equivalent of pawning our mothers’ burnt bras to finance a boob job.
Editors’ Note: Back in their spring/summer issue, The Atlanta Review brought us “the very first poetry from inside the pro-democracy movement in Iran.” We asked the editor, Sholeh Wolpé, if we could reprint a couple of the poems.
And then she said yes! This is the second of those poems x