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.

Pushcart Prize Nominees for 2023
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