Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Sun baked lung

    brown bag lunch

    in the mines of

    Wheeling, West Virginia where

    there was a woman

    who sang every morning,

    and brought flowers

    every afternoon to him

    drank bourbon with one

    ice cube every evening

    while sitting up in bed

    on sheets with lavender

    etchings, the outlines of moths,

    an address book filled with

    ghosts who once inhabited

    a busy town of men in hats

    women with arms full

    of children, groceries, umbrellas

    dented tin roofs with soot

    and shameful glances from the top floor

    down to a street with no

    sunny side, only the hustle

    to make a decent salary,

    to breath without effort

    raise the young without weeping

    over the choices available

    without a dime or a dream

    that isn't attached to a

    false landscape, hollowed out

    efficiently, clean as a bleached

    bone, creaking under the

    weight of a liver that now

    echoes like an empty bar room.

Better browser, please.

To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.