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  • Introduction to Susan Falco

    The last nonfiction/memoir course I taught at Florida International University last year included a new student, a young woman named Susan Falco. She was the quietest person in the class, yet spoke with authority (quietly) when she spoke. What she wrote was not only memorable—it burned itself into my memory. Her prose seemed to me…

  • The Years

    Translated from the Yiddish by Maia Evrona   Like women who are loved to the fullest and are still unsatisfied, and go through life with laughter and with rage in their eyes of fire and agate— so were the years. And they also appeared to be as actors, hesitantly performing Hamlet before the market; as…

  • Ode to Silence

    Glory to the half rest, to the breath between         the third and fourth beats,               the dwindling arrow of the decrescendo, to the sunrise over Malibu, and its sleeping starlets,        the empty horizon,               the city’s great thought…

  • Paramour

    The tribute was held downtown, far away from the theater district. Christine crossed the street gingerly, on four-inch heels thin as pencils—Ivan had always loved women in high heels—and checked the address against the invitation in her purse. The building was new and modern, the front window lettered with Cyrillic characters and a boldface translation:…

  • Hitting and Getting Hit

    They could say what they liked, imitate the way I stuttered the morning Pledge, mashed the alphabet, ask how many chickens 1 plus 3 made, why my brain sat in a corner, in a class of one, refused to read or write, was nailed to my tongue, just as long as they understood that some…