If I could stick an arrow into God, spilled free from bow or empowered gray with spire, run whooping raw in thunder, dab with relish those puddles of the kill, then I would never need to be any better than I am. Fair shot, he’d say, but you’ve killed a quarry you cannot dress. I will take with me his ribs, and raise buttresses. Hew the pleura to frame my vault. Relieve the Pantocrator in soft minuscules of stain. For my sake, he’d say, I hope you’re kidding. For my sake, I hope I am too.
Gnashing Teeth Publishing is proud to submit the following poems for consideration of the Pushcart Prize. Each of these nominees had work published by us in 2023, whether online or