How Loss Inhabits a Body

Miriam Bird Greenberg

Like your collar is always turned up.
Like the wind twisting in your ears, conch
and cilia. Like the spine of the roof
peering behind other roof-spines, green
with moss. Like waking up as someone
else. Like when you’re…

Guidelines & FAQ

The Quotidian Bee is seeking to reprint single poems from published (or soon to be published) books, chapbooks, anthologies, and magazines, as a way of drawing attention to those publications. We are particularly interested in the work of small presses and poems that have not yet appeared online…

I love my country

Nina Puro

The jackdaw cries until sunrise. The people wait for a white man
. . . . . to tell them what to wear. I throw up breakfast. All morning, I pull out

Layla

Lauren Clark

The apartment is long, so
if, upon waking, one turns one’s head on the pillow
away from the wall, it becomes possible to see
all the way through the hallway, the living
room, the kitchen, all the way to the stranger
at the counter, where he is placing
a small amount of…

from The Hindrances of a Householder

Jennifer Bartlett

You do not believe you are sexy. You do not believe you are beautiful. You believe you are intelligent, but sometimes the effort to convince others isn’t worth it. You have cerebral palsy from an accident at…

Airstrip Heart

Sarah J. Sloat

At two we are scheduled for snow.

The sky swells with the fear of falling
the feeling
a little wind can trigger.

Woman Under Glass

Kelli Russell Agodon

from the Exhibition of the Modern American Mother

The woman wants to be the woman her family thought
she should be, but she doesn’t like cooking. She doesn’t
like cooking or other mothers or doing crafts. In…

Oh, wow, mausoleums,

Kathleen Ossip

says the man who doesn’t remind me of you

except that everything reminds me of you, except mausoleums.

In the important world (my imagination), I am watching you, simply, without hope or…

Dear November,

Joanna Fuhrman

I’d like to order another November
instead of you. There’s some rain
in my shoes and it’s flooding this
poem, turning all the gutters into
used-up guts. A fireman with an ancient
harpoon wanders the parallelograms
of Virgil’s internet looking to be…

from In the Gun Cabinet

Mike Lala

. . . . . . . . Nocturne in the gun cabinet . . . . . my mother’s body in wake
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . snow falls around me . . . . . in the hallways of