“who we were when,” a poem by Frederick Ramey.
“… I don’t know if his hands are moving but I bet they are somehow I’d feel washed over like that too and be so proud of us …” who we were when . Isn’t it a great country he asks me as we cross the Panhandle for the second time in three days...
![[born], a poem by Frederick Ramey.](https://broadstreetonline.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/image-290x290.png "[born], a poem by Frederick Ramey.")
[born], a poem by Frederick Ramey.
Every morning, a choice. “… the clarion reach from the New World mist …” To save and enjoy this poem as a broadside, drag the image to your desktop. … [born] in the morning of the year we decide who is equal and who is not, the clarion reach from the New World mist, slave songs on...
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Our Best of the Net nominations, 2020.
We give thanks for good work in a difficult time. Image: Jefferson Davis statue on Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. Photograph by Gregory Weatherford. We at Broad Street are proud of everything we publish, and we wish we could nominate all of it for every award out there. Alas, we can choose only a handful....
“When a tsetse fly,” a poem by Mari Pack.
It’s as welcoming as a mother, but none of this was personal. When a tsetse fly – chews your skin with its scissor teeth, through delicate capillaries for the sweet stain of red, it does so completely in earnest. – It ushers in the flagellate protozoan Trypanosoma brucei gambiense. Those misshapen parentheses swim — and they must swim — through...
“Screaming at the Brooklyn Bridge,” a poem by Mari Pack.
Nobody wants to live with a corpse … Screaming at the Brooklyn Bridge After Robert Lowell’s “Waking in the Blue” * I weigh one hundred and five pounds after my New York breakfast of vanilla Soylent, all I can keep down these days, thanks to the anti-depressant. I swallow it, beige smoothie, every four to six hours....
