by Mike Bove Poetry   Anger evaporates on the open table beside an empty glass. My mother is dead. At the end of August, heat recedes at last. We push windows open to let cool air pour in at night. Th...

Poems aren’t puzzles. Disagree if you want & if you do see line nineteen where you’ll find my mom, drunk again the night she pitched a log through our kitchen window, scaring the shit out of five-year-old...