Alison Luterman

City Chickens

I never thought // I’d end up like this, domesticated as a pet lamb, / with a mate who worries our hundred-year-old house // needs new everything, shingles to foundation.

Los Vecinos

And we’re included in the golden circle / of familia, through no virtue / of our own, yet here she is again at our door / with a plate of something delicious, or a big plastic bag / filled with nopales from the edible pads / of the giant cactus in their yard

Outpouring

Read this web-only poem about the protests in response to ICE

In the aftermath of a second killing by federal agents in Minneapolis, Alison Luterman wrote “Outpouring,” a poem about the massive protests in response to ICE’s presence in the city. It’s a reflection of the enormity of emotion that these terrible events have brought forth—outrage and fear, yes, but most of all love for our neighbors.

Los Vecinos

Read a Poem from An Upcoming Issue

Once in a while we get a submission that’s a perfect fit for an issue, but the deadline to include it has already passed. That’s what happened with Alison Luterman’s poem “Los Vecinos,” which we accepted two weeks after the November issue went to the printer. The poem, about an immigrant neighbor who brings food and healing gifts to the author’s door, is a heartfelt companion to the November interview  between Daniel McDermon and John Washington about open borders and Laurie Smith’s photo essay  about migrants seeking entry to the US from Mexico. “Los Vecinos” translates the enormous issue of immigration into a personal story about generosity, community, and resilience. We’re publishing it on the website so you can read it in conversation with the interview and photo essay, which you’ll find both online and in print. 

Manicure

What remains of their visit is memory, residue, / trickles of sand from our trip to the beach. / I confess, I like my bedazzled talons . . .

Pink Suede Boots

Decades old now, / but the leather’s held up, and the curve / of the instep is still elegant. / I gave them away to my goddaughter, sixteen / and blossoming.

Poetry By Sparrow And Alison Luterman

When I worked as a manuscript reader for The Sun, I didn’t always agree with founder and editor Sy Safransky about poetry. . . . But there were two poets whose work always appealed to both of us: the Bay Area poet and essayist Alison Luterman and New York City’s kindest oddball, Sparrow. . . . It’s my honor to introduce both poets, whose rewarding, divergent work has been crucial in shaping the voice and image of The Sun for decades.

— Ann Humphreys

Jump

Because my car is twenty years old / and the gizmo that goes ding ding ding / when you leave the lights on / has been busted for at least a decade, / I’m always contending with a comatose battery.

Hard Times

After that incident I sorted people into two categories: those who could sing and those who couldn’t. I was now relegated to the land of Couldn’t, an exile from the country of music.

A Few Days After My First Vaccine

Walking by the lake, I lose an earring / and don’t even notice it at first, / overwhelmed as I am / by the strangeness of everything.