Poetry

I’m my father’s green thumb turned hard from the weeding, plucking out the overgrown. They whimper at my hand, clinging...

1. 1918 What was it like for you that last summer, the humidity of cicadas endless as the ocean between...

You pen a note to your friend in math class asking my friend in phy-ed if she’ll tell me during...

I like the way the paint peels off the ceiling at Cemitas Las Poblanitas—full, satisfying sheets drooping down—and the way...

Clayton Spencer is an Appalachian poet from Southeastern Kentucky. He holds a BA in English fromthe University of Kentucky.

My mother calls me one evening to tell me I can no longer call her by our name— Or to...

We found a raspberry patch in full bloom threw them into the brooding, balmy sky turning raindrops into gumdrops. The...