Maureen N. McLane

Walt Whitman​ was a great recycler. He composts himself at the end of ‘Song of Myself’: ‘I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,/If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.’ Leaves of Grass became his lifelong project, expanding over decades. ‘Song of Myself’ appeared in all editions, pipped from the lead as he wrote...

It is time to consult my friendsthe historians who still believein research and a tapestry of factwoven on the loom of deliberationand hypotheticals testedagainst what are perceivedto be outcomes. It is timeto remember the oneswho never abandonedthe way to carefor the dead the oneswho said not only my deadand not only the official deadmatter amidst all the matter.

What’s the...

Long slide, are you comingmany a man never learnshow to do itLong slide, many yearsinside and outsidethe same long slideLong slide, fair warningthe children who diedneed not have diedLong slide, amusement parkhere you can buy what’s on offerlet’s put a fence around pleasureLong slide, new bedsome things never get oldhowever often they’re doneLong slide, playgrounddogs are not...

Prose poetry,​ the bête noire of traditionalists, has existed since at least the 1840s, though as recently as 1979 Mark Strand was denied a Pulitzer Prize because his collection The Monument was made up of prose poems. These days it often appears, in anglophone poetry at least, as one option among many: free verse, formal verse, prose poetry, erasure poetry, whatever – it’s...

The rocks individuated as peopleif you register peopleas individuals, which I do,haplessly, helplessly, when forced,fright or flight or love or _______.

The plants need water.The rhododendrons are drooping.Your lust for the contemporaryis understandable but mildly disappointing.

She made me a latte,today’s small gift.They must be annoyed, the onesliving now next to a construction site.