32 Poems Magazine | Poetry for the ear, the eye, and the ego.

32poems

Richard Hoffman Camouflage

A cabbage butterfly on white clematis?
Monarch on a windblown tiger lily?
You have to look closely. Some creatures
take great pains not to be seen, eons
of effort, changes you would not believe….

A cabbage butterfly on white clematis?
Monarch on a windblown tiger lily?
You have to look closely. Some creatures
take great pains not to be seen, eons
of effort, changes you would not believe.
Now crisp leaves curl around clay pots
on the sill: a face could fist and tears come
thinking of all we missed or misunderstood.
We have exchanged so much of ourselves
for so long it could be we’ve disappeared
into each other. I’m not sure where to look
sometimes, or if you can see me. All I know
is I don’t want to be a memory just yet.
Can we see each other as we are? Or
only as we were? Do we still have wings?

Michael Lavers Catching My Breath

There, where I always stop
and splash with river water
before the last push to the top,

I saw, flecked with the canopy’s
cracked shade, a flash
of jade, a swoop and freeze

of kingfisher…

There, where I always stop
and splash with river water
before the last push to the top,

I saw, flecked with the canopy’s
cracked shade, a flash
of jade, a swoop and freeze

of kingfisher—moving though still—
land on a branch,
until the weird roach in its bill

squirmed out and fell;
whereat, this filigree of air,
faster than I can tell,

but full of nonchalance—
as if more difficulty
is what mastery wants—

swooped languorously
down, three dusk-green vortexes
lingering briefly

like tattoos on air,
then paused under the bug,
as if with years to spare,

recaught it, let its wings’ shears
counterslice around, or rather
locked the notches of their gears

into the world, then wheeled
back up to the applause
of leaves, and there—concealed,

and reconciled, it seemed,
to flesh—enjoyed its meal.
Its wet head steamed.

I breathed. It left its stoop,
and though I hadn’t seen
its wingtip, in that swoop,

licking the river’s brim,
I saw now, as it flew,
bright feather-drip, dim

circles in the stream below,
ellipses where a mirror-world
shivered in afterglow.

Meg Day No—

leave the light on. We tried this once
in a dream, bare calves mud-flung

from quick sprint out of sudden
downpour, linoleum slick with our

drip & sheen, tugging wet denim
down to our knees, then our knees…

leave the light on. We tried this once
in a dream, bare calves mud-flung

from quick sprint out of sudden
downpour, linoleum slick with our

drip & sheen, tugging wet denim
down to our knees, then our knees

to the floor. On what ripe fruit
we fed, peeled & sunk at the tongue,

each husk hollowed clean. Daylight
on a night-bloom is rare indeed

& I needn’t dream to try to outrun
my own weather. Of all the good

rooms I’ve left, my body is the one
you prefer. You’ve never asked to see

in order to believe our symmetry
lacks only echo: one for one until

I’m undone by what I can’t confirm
except by feel. And who would argue

with these hands—should they spend
their inborn bent endowing every favor

you could dream—so long as you keep
your chin upturned in ecstasy & those two

good eyes sealed? I wanted you
to know me only in relief—& so be

relieved of all the risks of reciprocity.
But now I find our currents intertwined

& even my gale no strips down its
only consonant: we agree. I want you

to take your time. You can take mine, too
if you let me be the one to close my eyes.

Recent Issues

No. 44 Winter 2025

No. 43 Summer 2024

No. 42 Winter 2024

No. 41 Summer 2023

No. 40 Winter 2023

No. 39 Summer 2022

More Issues...

Featured Prose

Featured Prose

Featured Prose

Recent Issues