Audio Feature: Nyree Abrahamian (Shō No. 5)
I can think of a few things more entrenched, / like language, syllables strung together // in a lilt
POETRY submissions REOPEN DECEMBER 15
Order OUR SUMMER ISSUE: SHŌ NO. 9 (ships after september 5)
congratulations to erica dawson on winning a pushcart prize!
listen to her poem here OR READ IT IN SHŌ NO. 6
Established in 2002, revived in 2023

I can think of a few things more entrenched, / like language, syllables strung together // in a lilt

INTERVIEW A Conversation with Nathan Xavier Osorio Shō intern Claire Zhou interviews Shō contributor Nathan Xavier Osorio, whose poems “How to Cook a Wolf,” “Empty Stadiums,” and “Come, Little Hunger” appear in Shō No. 4. Nathan’s debut collection of poetry, Querida, won the 2024 Agnes Lynch Starrett Poetry Prize, selected by Shara McCallum. Claire Zhou …

After all, what way is there to leave / a dance floor other than wet // & shaking under a mass of pleading / legs all huddled into a single moving // sacrifice—swaying tall & drowning / in bass?

The days have been heavy lately, /
an albatross on each shoulder

My mother fell in love with the way you cracked / into an urchin.

I smelled like churned earth, breasts bouldered and leaked / through my support bra into my shirt / for days after his deathbirth.

A playlist for Pride Month, featuring recordings by Ally Ang, Cass Garison, Cassandra Whittaker, Eben E. B. Bein, Quinton Okoro, and Dare Williams.

Mom, since we stopped / speaking, I've been searching / for the first word / you gave me.

My father came to this country / through the womb. My mother, too. // Their mothers and their fathers, too. / But somewhere behind them: a crossing.

Today, my heart is working / remotely. I watch it thump / and thrum reliably behind / the blur of a computer screen.

i’m drinking coffee and reading an essay / by Tarantino breaking down Scorsese’s decision to / cast Harvey Keitel as the pimp in Taxi Driver

The sirens—remembering—often sing to me / of my own deathwish.

how else would i describe it? / somewhere below all of us // i paced the dirt floor of a deep / and airless pit, digging and uncovering // only daylilies tight and green

I’m not good at holding / anything real // the glass the weight these night- / blooming jasmine

I share an arm rest / with a stranger who has desires // too.

There is still good meat / on these bones.

I can tell you about strength. / How the sun warms our skins. / How the moon turns tides.

I think I'm tired of auditioning. / I'm not dancing for bread anymore. / I'm not paying your fee.

I split into two and the wolf split into four and we kept dividing
our greatness until I matched the air and the wolf matched the earth

I sling myself up those stairs / with all the other tired men because //
who am I to refuse the slap / of hunched playing cards

Sometimes I forget I came from the Earth / from the rocks, from the spongy moss // was a home for all the squirming, crawling / slippery life that lived under me.