Founded in 2009, Poor Claudia publishes poetry, prose and conversations online and in print.

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Ryan Sheldon

Three Poems

her war so that we / could grieve easy / and decontextualized, the injury soft

Emma Bolden

Two Poems

I saw / him in the same way I saw the museum. Displayed inside glass: / a man who lived to be dead. For five / thousand years snow was / gentlesweet, preserving him as skin & tufts once-was-hair.

Anne Marie Rooney

A Story Casts for Small Light

The wall held the drips, where silence stood, / where she's going. Pray for rain / if you go.

Lori Propheter

Four Poems

I did not want to / go / we followed / a mile / finally we arrived / to see

  • Ryan Sheldon
    Three Poems
  • Emma Bolden
    Two Poems
  • Anne Marie Rooney
    A Story Casts for Small Light
  • Lori Propheter
    Four Poems
  • Books in Print

    Prosthesis

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    The Fundaments

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    Hymn To Life

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    All Talk

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    The Holy Grail

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    Boyfriend Mountain

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    Last Month Online

    Six Poems

    A spider the size of a baseball, just in time for opening day, more or less as poisonous as the mine’s boarded-up air.

    Circling Home

    Longing to go home, we balance freedoms in still-soft palms, swaddle guns like babies, and carry them close to our chests as we march in the bone-splitting cold. Heading straight as the crow, we invite history to circle round.

    Five Poems

    outline of a head or of a seated figure with a child / is covering what it opens around. Here, someone said, / please take this.

    Five Poems

    The author’s hand in the scene. // Another metaphor for faith // foreshadowed in the decision // to insure or not insure in case // it will burn. It isn’t a nice house // but a university of suffering.

    Six Poems

    Some days I relax / in the most beautiful zone and hope / to be struck down, to be disappeared / by an unexpected special attack, but erasure / can't be summoned so easily.

    To Shower After Four Days

    You think // we must be going crazy as a people. / To wash off all this blood, whose hues // we cannot name but near pastel, falsetto, / there, our own two hands.

    Two Poems

    as our pure stone gains a weak door / as this weak servant alters this lesser frame / as a double frame gains this wounded roof / as this lesser roof counts thy mighty frame

    Five Poems

    pick up an orange and press // the skin, feeling for strings where they // shouldn’t be. Open the door // Some ancient instrument // washes your floor.