Maxwell Rabb lives in Chicago, but leaves his heart in New Orleans and Atlanta. He is a poet, pursuing his M.F.A. at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Dream Pop Journal, Deluge, After the Pause, Vermont Studio Center Broadside Collection, and The Operating System. He loves to move in every sense of the word.
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Ø I think your name is less like itself is more like your middle name and most like the way you've held your pencil ever since you practiced cursive, and the ridge of callus precisely on your finger t
I ONLY CAME TO SEE GOD on the altar. When all the guests had left, & the smell of tuna had wafted far off into the ocean from where it came. No one truly knows. I waited for you, even though I knew yo
The First Law of Robotics What kind of malfunction brought you, little daffodil, with the afterbirth of an early February frost; what maker of clocks, what loosed screw; what turned and left the heart
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