The poetry of Brett Warren

Four Graces by Brett Warren I rested my hand on Nadine’s shoulder as she coughed blood into a white tissue. I didn’t know what else to do, hired because I showed up at a not-so-nice nursing home, a…

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but / it / poured / into / me /

The moth arcs the kitchen bulb and flutters away, drawn  to a lampshade, then to the pages of my open book,  then to my bare arm. She’s too fragile to be saved  in the…

Wasp Tattoo by Brett Warren I was a truck, a train, a bulldozer. I steam- rolled everywhere, drove the same roads to and from every day, flattening the tasks on my never-ending list, then stood in …

But sometimes, I swear I hear it, the wound closing like a rusted-over garage door, and I can still move my living limbs into the world without too much…

Nothing to do but sweep this kind of snow, featherweight but profuse, floating down to accumulate in silence, obscuring everything below. My body remembers its careful step and …

Brett Warren (she/her) is a long-time editor and the author of The Map of Unseen Things (Pine Row Press, 2023). Her poetry has appeared in Bellevue Literary Review, Canary, Halfway Down the Stairs, Ha...

I’ve been told not to go. Warnedof the dangers to trees, and so to me—the instability caused by too many stormsand saturated ground. But I know this forest. I know these trails. I knowwhich trees a…

Needle BiopsyThe room was neutral, hushed and dim, except for sconces that glowed like modest bouquets and a cone of light buddingfrom the end of a flexible stem. It seemed like a lot of people for…

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The poetry of Brett Warren

“They do not sweat and whine about their condition,” Walt Whitman wrote of the other animals, “they do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, they do not make me sick …

When he travels, she stays up past midnightand makes popcorn, store-bought in a foil pan with a twisted top that balloons as she slides it back and forth across the burner. She’s heard&nb…