Established in 2002, revived in 2023
Listen to Danielle Shandiin Emerson read “Sometimes, she listened to his stories.” from Shō No. 4 (Winter 2023/24). We nominated this poem for a Pushcart Prize. “I wrote this as a sort of release from a lot of complex father and mental health related emotions. It’s written in third person to sort of distance myself, while …
You should talk about the field of dying alfalfa, / the golden straws that scratch your grandmother’s / legs when she returns from the river, and the fleas / jumping to her swollen ankles.
Dear Ryuichi, I live in a universe where / the sound of rain is your fingers tinkering / with the keys.
you beautiful beautiful stupid haunted girl / you lawless thief of daddy’s face and mummy’s grief / you daughter of the pomeroon
prepared to be bare chested for the first / time in public. Fear I’ll be breaking / some cardinal rules.
praise: for the sisters putting on rubber suits for each other / praise: for preparing the day’s catch with soy sauce & pan-fried onions
My excised uterus cramps with a phantom / womb’s labor pain, hard as that is to fathom.
I think I'm tiring of auditioning. / I'm not dancing for bread anymore.
Rolling fields kiss the edges of town, farmland / lying flat and fallow like the rest of us.
There's a certain surrender / to being an optimist—one which begins / with the day but, in fact, begins // with the evening.
When I say moon, I recall brown calves lowing / at night, sheltered under their mothers' calm grace / in star-studded pastures.
We’re all something else / to someone else. Maybe he became better, a person / who hated sharing a body with the person he used to be.
the turkeys arrive while I’m deciphering / the if this, then that of taxes.
"I was thinking a lot about human mortality and environmental catastrophe, and how we all are momentary in the world"
One / becomes my aunt. Enter AUNT in wide / angle shots. Flickers form infinite / possibilities cast on that screen.
as abecedarian. Beehive. Corner cabinet, desk / detritus. Earthshine. Faultline. As gristle and gall.
It’s true—the scene is charged / with a heat surpassing what I endured to arrive here.
INTERVIEW A Conversation with Arah Ko Shō intern Claire Zhou interviews Shō contributor Arah Ko, whose poems “Magpie 까치” and “Fiddleback” appear in Shō No. 4. Arah is the author of Brine Orchid (YesYes Books 2025) and the chapbook Animal Logic (Bull City Press 2026). Claire Zhou Hi Arah! I’ve read both of your poems …
“This poem is one of many calls and/or responses to the poet Megan Merchant. Our co-authored collection A Slow Indwelling comes out Fall 2024 from Harbor Editions and deals with a father and mother wrestling through cultural violence, the fragility of childhood, the preciousness of a parents love, and the beauty and pain expressed through the natural world.”
