Stefanie Kirby

I feel space —
tangled and expecting

O hai.

sculptural green, blue and silver abstract collage

incompatible merit // handcut paper collage on cardstock, february 2026

#abstract #collage #queerart

✨two new poems✨ from The Last Great Adventure Is You (Alice James Books, 2027) in The Southampton Review (1/2)

A Very Gay Literary Hour Join us for laughs, stories, and queer vibes at A Very Gay Literary Hour—books never felt this fabulous!

After Wednesday night’s fun w/ @fifthwheelpress.bsky.social + @masonjarpress.bsky.social we hope you'll join us in Baltimore for this Fab night @ Vinyl + Pages! 🏳️‍🌈

A flyer advertising an AWP Bookfair contest. Yellow background and black text, with a graphic of a pile of dice and a pamphlet in the middle. Text reads "Dice and Draft: An AWP Bookfair Contest. One prose and one poetry winner will be published at thirdcoastmagazine.com. Visit Booth 127 to play the game and get the submission link!"

Will you be in Baltimore for #awp26? If so, come visit Third Coast at booth 127 to participate in our Bookfair Contest! Play a dice-based game, receive a prompt, and get drafting! Winners will be published on our website.

#writingcontest #awpbookfair #baltimore #baltimoreevents

Don’t make a fool of yourself make a fire burn your longings & belongings one by one

Robert Hogg

Copyist Susan L. Leary After we give the animal a writing utensil, what 1s needed next: a mind or a piece of paper? This is not a question or a riddle but an argument of practicality. The idea of a brother is not a brother. The idea of freedom is made tangible in the hands of arbitrarily good men. How to invent the after-life? How to absolve oneself of hierarchy while kissing another man's feet? On the outside, my brother passes me the clippers. He passes the dog a coin & I hide the dog in my purse. If I must remember for him, must I remember accurately? On the questionnaire, my sister gets shit done. I count the fan blades. I call the public defender. I leave a message for the 29* time. No one gives a fuck, my brother says—& all I can do is listen. All I can do is thumb through the pages & continue to learn his whereabouts. Bunk 22. Bunk 32. Where against the false pretense of sunrise, he dreams from an unidentified bed & I dream in the bed of his language. If you are someone who is likeable only in comparison to your captor, What are we doing? he says. If we hold the state accountable, do we do it through language or through love? On the outside, my brother passes. I take his pen & invent the mouth of his archive. I am delegate. I am yammerer. Of myself, my brother should get the credit.

Honored to have a new poem in The McNeese Review, a journal I absolutely love! Thanks to editor, Michael Robins, and poetry editor, Gwenyth Wheat, for giving “Copyist” such a kind home and for inviting me to speak about my process in crafting it (included in the replies)! Check it out, friends! 💙

Photo of trash bags, packed full with garbage

William Eggleston, Untitled, 1971-73 www.metmuseum.org/art/collecti...

Check out these dope titles from my pressmates and I at @the-ethelzine.bsky.social! Grab a subscription to the whole 2026 catalog if you can.

www.ethelzine.com/chapbooks-mi...

A man is sewing button holes into the wings of moths. The wings tear, and the man keeps sewing. It is long ago. The world still has an end. The man carries the moths there. Gently. They begin their long falling.

Anne-Marie Turza

THIN GOD Thin God slipped into the crack in my eyelid, and that was how I came to know my mother. Thin God promised me more time, but I knew Thin God always lied in the morning. Thin God convinced the aliens to cleave a cloud into a boy and a girl. Instead, the aliens created a comedian and a bird. Thin God ate the aliens and gave me a baby. Thin God told me my story had a twist ending, but by the time I fell asleep with the baby in my arms, I forgot I was in a story at all.

One of mine in @passagesnorth.bsky.social

#smallpoemsunday
@tomsnarsky.bsky.social

Poem text: Listen to yourself, the therapist said; do you hear how you sound, she said, and I heard the sound of a mare trying to turn around in a stall too small for turning. Trying to know the other view. This is not a metaphor for an unhappy life. This is how my body felt. This is how neurology followed its groove, showed me a picture of a mare in a stall too small for turning. Mare's shoulder pressed in one direction, mare's flank pressed in the other. The torque involved. The stillness at the center. And field in every direction: visible field. From THE VISIBLE FIELD

Zoë Ryder White, from The Visible Field

Publication date: tomorrow! 📚💙🎉

riverriverbooks.org/store/-Preor...

I've got 3 poems in the newest issue of TRNSFR! Here's one of em! (from a MS of poems I wrote in 2018, edited/compiled in 2020, then abandoned in 2023)

Black ink drawing, silhouette of a utility pole and power lines

Black ink drawing, silhouette of a utility pole and power lines

Black ink drawing, silhouette of a utility pole and power lines

Black ink drawing, silhouette of a utility pole and power lines

Ferndale Power Lines Drawings
(#s 131, 133, 144, 145)
marcusjmerritt.com/power-lines-...

Jennifer Chang brings in the year of the fire horse www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazi...

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My mind was haunted
The day had yet to begin
My feet were cold
Hands clammy

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Wow, these are STUNNING!

If YOU need some promo stuff designed, you know where to find me.

(Here. I'm right here.)

Honored to have my poem appear in this issue of Blue Earth Review.🌎

Will be reading from MORE FLOWERS (@triohousepress.org) as part of the SUNDAY SALON CHICAGO with this stellar line-up of poets on February 22nd! Join us, friends! 💙⬇️

sculptural textured black and white collage with textual fragments

return to light i // handcut paper collage with graphite on recycled paperboard, february 2026

#collage #abstraction #queerart

A Boat Named Hard Times The boat, dust-covered, was left on the roadside under a sheet of sun-pummeled blue. It reminded me of a dead shark I saw half-buried in beach sand, the ants processioning from its eyes and belly like negative stars. Maybe the trailer had a flat. Maybe the owner, aghast at the name, abandoned it, because really what times could be hard in which buying a boat is possible? I've never leapt from a sinking ship, though I've floated out to open sea with two dead engines, watched the coast grow small. Too far from land land feels imaginary, as do the radio’s voices saying where are you, where are you. I was escorted away from everything I knew by a school of spinner sharks, named for their habit of leaping and pinwheeling while trying to shake a hook. What’s in a name? To suffer and fly.

Front cover of new issue of Cherry Tree. Green thorny rose pattern on white background.

Back cover of new issue of Cherry Tree, featuring various author names including Andrew Hemmert

I'm thrilled to be back in Cherry Tree with a new sonnet! Thanks as always to the editors for including me. It's fun getting lost at sea for about ten minutes. After that it's dull and terrifying. I do miss the ocean though.

Here’s some Laura Makabresku art to make your Wednesday a little better.

Every time I re-read Mueller, I'm reminded I should teach a class on her work:

Crossing Borders The mailman. Gold hood. The mailman. Cold out. How many are there like me sitting at desk, unshaven, 10 a.m. the radio on one ear cocked for the crash of mail through the slot? You can't live for yourself alone. Oh, you can but is that all there is to it? Demonstrate charm, advertise connectedness, know the different cheeses, how to garden where to travel until the dark rises out of the indifferent bushes.

You can't live / for yourself alone.

Bill Corbett

TWO UNSIGNED POEMS BY CHILDREN IN PIQUA, OHIO David Shevin I. I was a rabbit who could hop the farthest. I was a girl who had long hair. II. I dream of you and so on I can’t believe it

David Shevin

After dreams collide with our being,
there’s nothing but smoke

The rift between the surface of the world
and your mind is on fire

My, all these hours
answering to no end