Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


House on Toluca

Jesus De La Torre

Bars or no bars, if you did have something worth having, they’d take it, whether you were ridiculous about home security or not.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Heavy Lyfting

Ben Austin-Docampo

It's easy in the sense that all you have to do is get in the car and fire up the app. It's hard in that it requires long, monotonous hours to be fruitful, and constant vigilance to stay safe. San Francisco is a tough city to drive.

2 Poems

Sara Lupita Olivares

blame grows small in the moth’s circling / day to day the slightest tooth loosens / a landscape changes until returning by habit

Voyage: Happening in an Egg

Megan McHugh

Why did he shape my brother’s body to the contours of war? Is this the shape of all our language already?

3 Poems

Kamil Bouška, transl. by Ondrej Pazdírek

We're not here yet, and still the key aches in the lock. I am leaving, and it's as if I was returning

From the Archives

Paddling in the Bloody Moat

Helen McClory

A flood takes no notice of the borders we construct between inside and out. Like Cassandra sitting in the kitchen sink at her window, the Willoweed family and servant Old Ives can do nothing but observe.

Fugu

Kaveh Akbar

the liver of a blowfish is said to / be the tastiest part it’s also the / most toxic an ounce enough to kill ten men

Feathers

Jennifer Bullis

St. Christopher strides across the river. Both hands grip a walking staff bracing him against the current, his calf muscles flexing as fish swirl about his legs. He is looking up at the infant Christ perched birdlike on his right shoulder. This is perhaps the moment in which the Saint, who does not yet know the identity of the child, is said to ask Him, “Why are you so heavy?” and Christ answers, “Because I bear on my shoulders the weight of the world.”

Two Poems: American Travelogue & Life Drawing

Caroline Crew

You see the flower's form leak into itself. A self. Some things in America still make sense. I open my junk mail, Disney red. Your family. Liquid uttered out into the night freezes your dreams undone. Veracity leaves its whispers. Make an orchestra instead. Every bitten breath

From the Blog

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.

Experiments with White Heat

That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…