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Index Previous Next Pushcart Prize Nominee 2020 Best of the Net Nominee 2021 Smiling at the Executioner Reject your sense of injury and the injury itself disappears. ― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations As if the open barrel were a lotus; its roots anchored in mud. How undeterred by murky water, it submerges and reblooms: petals like crystal glazed and without residue. As if you never felt something move: no welcome and prescient ache, no sudden flexing, no cycle taking shape. No memory. No calendar. No yield – because you are the bullet’s shield. As if you have nothing to lose. As if all that you have learned to love: the beating heart; the mythic glove of a palm blooming in the womb; the scent that follows touch – is suddenly dust. Just the open-grinned, white-toothed stare down this time; the stayed and steady practice on your knees of mastering someone else’s pleas. . Copyright © 2020 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Sky Island Journal , Summer 2020 Pushcart Prize Nominee 2020 Best of the Net Nominee 2021 Editor's comment: ...the epitome of what we consider powerful poetry to be. Vivid, palpable imagery saturates the perfect pacing of this svelte, knife-like piece. Full review

Index Previous Next Morning in Three Movements I I lie in my own pasty pool like a lamb in a druid’s bed. Layer by layer, thread after thread, I shed and shed. O, press me between your palms again! Deliverer, be delivered. Without your need, without a guise to beautify, what am I? II. I know her layers far better than she. Scales that I peel in a rush of steam. My tongue, her arch, her bending knee. The soft between her legs where I redeem myself, the way the Great Throwdini did, who earned his life, her love, by sparing them. Without her bristling flesh, oh what am I? III. In this morning light, I am almost transparent, a sheet of shimmering snow that holds another person’s fears – once in this tight embrace, twice in this lingering scent, this care, this newfound air. Answers to Riddles in Reverse: I: paos fo rab II : rozar III. eussit . Copyright © 2023 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in The Banyan Review , Fall 2023.

Index Previous Next Snow Globe La Tour Eiffel. An April-snow like pollen covers a patch of stolid tulips. From the first platform, he leans over slick railings, leans as if in Keats’s scheme to drop and drop a red corsage to a woman below. I see it now: this is the one of 300 steel workers, who tumbled to his death clowning around. Her promise is to keep him from his fall by gazing back – his sentinel, his figurine against the filmy wash of elements against the fading colors in a dome. I shake it – not for snow – but to marvel at their hold. . Copyright © 2007 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Cider Press Review , Vol. 9, Spring 2008.

Index Previous Next Dream Song For a sleeping student Our voices, a gurgling brook, became your parting song: a stream grading stones – meandering – where bend becomes slope. You teetered in the current – strong, young – yet bowed by doubts, centuries-old cares. A stream grading stones, meandering. Where might we have extracted you, harness and rope, young – yet bowed by doubts, centuries-old cares? Cold depths are ours to brave alone, I was also told. Might we have extracted you, harness and rope, what threshold did you cross; what pieces rearrange? Cold depths are ours to brave alone. I was also told our troubles wane when guardian spirits learn our names. What threshold did you cross; what pieces rearrange? Our voices, a gurgling brook, became your parting song. Our troubles wane when guardian spirits learn our names, bend becomes slope. You teetered in the current – strong. . Copyright © 2025 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Teach. Write . Fall 2025.

Award Winning Poetry - 2013 Winner of the New South Writing Contest Amber Alert A white Ford, black gate, Georgia plate, squeezes into our lane. In the back, a Whitetail – tagged and slashed from her chest to hind legs – looks back at us. Her eyes a dark glass. Opening day for deer hunting. Cars pass and pass. In a field, lightning bugs darted and flashed in your hand. Half-girl, half-doe, you started and stopped, palms cupped. Someone carried you off and we cheered for the boy in the clay, his heel on home plate. It was a beautiful steal. Did he thank the deer for her head when he knelt above her? When he opened her middle to empty inedible parts? When, for a clean job, he severed her windpipe and – hunter’s nectar – he saved her heart? Copyright © 2013 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Winner of the 2013 New South Writing Contest. Published in new south : Georgia State University's Journal of Art & Literature , Summer 2013. Judge's Review Previous Next

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Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Published in Ezra , Spring 2019 Prev 3 Next THE HAND AND THE WRITING I let my hand run through my dream sudden wakeups thirsty in the invention of the word the other side of pain and the truth of the page A MÃO E A ESCRITA Deixo a mão correr pelo meu sonho num sobressalto sedento no invento da palavra pelo avesso da pena e a lisura da página Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Published in Ezra , Spring 2019. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next The Shadow Maker Our goal is to make it so there's as little friction as possible to having a social experience. – Mark Zuckerberg is the fifth richest man in the world; a harvester of pearls: our small talk like algae-rich waters and tides –new births, divorces, prizes our children acquire – feeding and keeping the oysters alive. is a master of illusion: figures in captioned poses, screen and light; shadows that dance on cave walls. Dramas that make us muse, lean in, post notes like medieval glosses in the margins of someone else’s domestic scenes; illuminators to an epic chant, a rhapsody’s god-dream. is the Ideal Prince, accepting the burden of princedoms, glory, survival, to jettison distinctions: good and depraved; monarch and something human saved. Better to be loved and feared rather than admired, or worse, revered. A lord who understands the desire to acquire. A magician with two hands. is a Philosopher King, able to discourse on goodness, justice, corrupting pride; hold court on high ideas: opinion, false truths, reality– a theory of forms that casts our lives in cycles, fruit and fallow; sinners redeemed. A god’s will altered; a cave master’s dream. . Copyright © 2022 M. B. McLatchey. All rights reserved. Published in Sequestrum , Issue 32, June 2022.

Selected Poems of Maria Teresa Horta Translated by: M.B. McLatchey and Edite Cunhã Forthcoming in Inventory , 2020 Prev 14 Next MY SUSTENANCE The more I write poetry the more I surrender to the loss the more I lose myself the more I find myself I catch a glimpse and despise and discount myself The more I write poetry the more I become enlightened to turn it into my body to summon it in time making it my sustenance MEU ALIMENTO Quanto mais escrevo poesia mais me entrego ao perdimento mais me perco e mais me encontro me desencontro e vislumbro me desacato e desvendo Quanto mais escrevo poesia mais me torno alumbramento a transformá-la em meu corpo a convocá-la no tempo tornando-a meu alimento Copyright © 2019 M. B. McLatchey & Edite Cunha, with permission. All rights reserved. Forthcoming in Inventory , Princeton University, 2020. Copyright © 2017 Maria Teresa Horta, from her collection Poesis . Dom Quixote Publisher, Lisbon. Back to List

Index Previous Next Girl at Piano Rings of blue smoke swirl above her head like kisses floating off a palm, or like balloons of varnished silk that stretch and lift her toward a parting draft. A mix of comic strip and something raw that worked in Lichtenstein's pastiche of lines and polka dots; yet, somehow, coming from her lips these figures make us shift and sip - and sip again. What is it makes us look away as if remembering things to do at home? Is it the clear distinction: what she sings and what she knows? That unexpected nimbus of true thought? Easier, no doubt, to look through little comic blocks, dream-like and Byzantine -- present, yet one remove from present scenes. . Copyright © 2006 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Published in Beauty/Truth: A Journal of Ekphrastic Poetry , Fall/Winter 2006.

Award Winning Poetry - 2006 Winner of the Vachel Lindsay Poetry Award Sanriku The game was not to look - but feel - the slow drag, the distant rise and fall, the quiet revolt of crests gaining an underworld; to know in our heels the moment of their advance: languid, insidious. "Sanriku!" one of us would call - a notice to the rest that it was imminent, and with one lift, a solidarity, we'd throw ourselves beachward, tossing and rolling in a curled force. Submerged, I would hear that call like water's moan, or like the heaving sobs of Asian fishermen, who felt too late the slip of plates, the buckling floor, the little missionary wave passing beneath their boats; who, steeped in so much grief, never knew the clarity that follows every quake -- when there, for just an instant, the contours of the seafloor below are mirrored in the water around our waists. Sanriku is a port in Japan that was destroyed by a tsunami in 1896. Fishermen 20 miles out to sea did not notice the wave pass under their boats because it only had the height at the time of about 15 inches. They were totally unprepared for the devastation that greeted them when they returned to the port of Sanriku - 28,000 people were killed and 170 miles of coastline were destroyed by the wave that had passed under them. Copyright © 2003 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved. Winner of the 2006 Vachel Lindsay Poetry Award. Published in Willow Springs 58, Fall 2006. Previous Next