September 23rd, 2026
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On Top Shelf
Fresh Pick
FROST AND VENOM
📚 New Books This Week 📰 Latest News 🎪 Reader Games

Snowbound secrets, shifter wars, family lies, and epic battles — September delivers it all.

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Some promises cost you the one you love.

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The Temple of Kronos wants her dead. The Stoneslayer wants her destroyed. Neither will have her.

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A poisoned cousin, a five-year-old's life, and a family with too many secrets.

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Betrayal runs in her blood. Justice runs in his. Together, they burn it all down.

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"ANOTHER WINNER!"
From New York Times
Bestselling Cleo Coyle

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Running from her past, she finds a killer, a protector, and her faith.

THE WORLD AFTER RAIN
By: Canisia Lubrin

Anne's Poem

Catapult
February 2026
On Sale: February 3, 2026
256 pages
ISBN: 1593768192
EAN: 9781593768195
Kindle: B0FDFRWFDD
Trade Paperback / e-Book
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Fiction Poetry

A Carol Shields Prize winner for her collection of fictions Code Noir, Canisia Lubrin now brings readers a long-form poetic tribute to her mother, praised by Dionne Brand as "incandescent"

In this stunning new poem, Canisia Lubrin’s signature epic vision is distilled into a elegy to her mother, along an interwoven and unresolvable axis of astonishment that belongs as much to history as to today. Her lucid attention to what might be the oldest metaphor for grief is drawn from the searing gravity and resonance of the modern poet’s decisive, interior, and inexpressible meditation on love, time, and loss in the excesses of life’s ambitions.

woman from fine-print time, disclose to the world:
the forecast of our noontime births outdoors; how I distrust
every form of authority, chiefly my own astonishment
this poisoned wish is why I love, I bow to deserts,
these claychildren of forests everywhere
I love the rain, this is no secret, I love the solar wind;
hold their elliptical life in the wasteland of our third mouths
where flowers are invisible and bones are sanded and amusing,
and every heliopause cloud senses our head, how we astonish
our memories vining where no shade is enough,
since many who’ll feed me will refuse me their names,
and good, who knows what bargains I would make
with their meanings . . .

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