To read Dickinson is to fall, softly and irrevocably, into the mystery of want.

When one of us dies, we all feel it.

Apart of nature, I shed the skin I have outgrown, Refusing to be restricted by things that have lost their purpose.

An ambitious and thought-provoking collection of poems, Melanin Sun (-) Blind Spots mixes the many reverberations of a biracial identity with a complex poetics of ambiguity.

nestled in the soft bit of skin between her neck and jaw,

it’s sprouted just out of her range of vision [. . .]

What says “love” better than poetry? Four of the Boshemia team share their latest love poems for Valentine’s Day 2022.

There is only an arm’s length between us,
enough to see straight into your brown eyes.

A poem about self-sabotage and jealousy.

My whole life has been roots and cherry picking, digging myself up before I was ripe.

Double dutch girls, we never did learn how to be apart.

I started writing again following my partner's disclosure of her intention to transition from male to female. I wrote this after my partner did my make up for the first time. It’s an emotional and lovely memory.

These poems are a part of a larger project concerned with expounding on a new place and scenery while grappling with familiarity. I write extensively about movement—not always physically, but even shifts in psyche.

“The moon begins to blot the sun-lit sky; / one sphere will prevail, and one will die.” The Quarantine Poems is a series of poetry written during the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown, available in text and in audio. The fourth instalment, Spheres, is authored by Liam Atterbury.

“It seems to me that everything is marked / in the time before / and now” The Quarantine Poems is a series of poetry written during the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown, available in text and audio. The third instalment, In Another Time, is authored by Erin Ammon.

The Quarantine Poems is a series of poetry written durning the covid-19 pandemic lockdown, available in text and in audio.

The first instalment, On Yearning, is authored by Sarah Lawrence.

Dust motes drift like ashes / perhaps an old dream / perhaps you

The collection begins now, a digging / the excavation of her pomegranate hips.

I haven’t left this river bed in six days.

I’ve imagined death so much it feels like a memory.

Your endless love, your little bird bones, the dark green waters of your soul.