The Moving Man Said This house is haunted, and then he sat down my couch.He said it casually, like a comment on the late Octobersnow, heavy and wet—perfect for pining aloneover a man who will never come to the door. Perfect for wrapping blanket upon blanket and pretendingthe warmth is
King Sing Street No king has ever walked the streetor sung there, but it does seem regal,nestled in royally outside the blue house that has become a historic landmark,even if only known by a handful of citizens.Students from a local art school draw the street and the house with precisionand
I believe in permanence,your brass head whirlingdroplets into the seared August air,without complaint or growing pains, sans giggles or adolescent drama,but I also believe in the slippery childskipping now through the rainbow miston a green New Hampshire lawn, impermanence boogying beneath you,sprinkler, in her red bathing suit,this one, thin-strapped and
In May, we invited the writing community to contribute to this special issue addressing the chaos, isolation, and uncertainty the world has been coping with throughout the ongoning COVID-19 pandemic.
We asked for (very) small stories or poems about isolation, quarantine, cabin fever, and the discoveries we make about ourselves, our families, and the world at large in times of crisis.
With the utmost gratitude for everyone who submitted, the Poor Yorick team is proud to present our special themed issue, In the Time of Corona. … Continue readingIn the Time of Corona: a Poor Yorick Special Publication
Let us postulate Hamlet had knocked up Ophelia,
Quietly, on the sly.
And, before dying, she gave birth.
What would their many-times-great-granddaughter be like,
Would she ever be able to make up her mind? … Continue reading“Danish Girl About Town,” by Harvey Soss
Afterwards, once the neighbors
were gone, the curtains shifted
back to the places they had
occupied before, the water
in the potted plants surged
into the saucers beneath… … Continue reading“Curiouser and Curiouser,” by Deborah H. Doolittle
His grandmother’s old Replogle rests by the window.
Spinning it around, he finds the pink lip of Chile cracked
and a crease, east of the Hawaiian Islands, cresting
at 500 nautical miles, according to the legend. … Continue reading“May 7, 2017,” by Christopher Kobylinsky