As Written by Mikhail Bulgakov Little cartographer, little sparrow, little bathtub sitting upon clawed feet, little aquarium cracked and housing a dead crow, little anvil, little hones holding large sickles, little swan of the question mark neck choking on flakes of black snow, little water truck nose-down in a gully with a rusty tongue, a…
I Family is and is not a velveteen pillow theater a dinner hour mistake with candied yams on the side a box at the bottom of flightless penguins hitchhiking through town footprints in a cemetery II Symmetry two moon pies per gypsy greedy art and dirigible need rushes and reeds tracing paper on papyrus the…
The better the book, the more of us it reads. Even as I look away, words float? across a world I never knew was there. Page after page, I feel the light wind? breathe a little sense into things.? Why would it be any different with you. I knew a man once who had one…
Cohen Awards Each year, we honor the best poem and short story published in Ploughshares with the Cohen Awards, which are wholly sponsored by our longtime patrons Denise and Mel Cohen. Finalists are nominated by staff editors, and the winners—each of whom receives a cash prize of $600—are selected by our advisory editors and staff….
meanwhile, back at the castle… the fan made in Taiwan is sputtering. the boring commercials for male enhancement and arthritis cures blare. someone’s dragging their feet. the idiot thugsta in the spanking convertible corners curbside, speakers on boom. space shuttle Discovery cracks the atmosphere. the effing faucet is dripping. the thousand sparrows are singing down…
Varick, yes. Just—oh, Film Forum, sure. Go straight down Carmine and turn left. Wait, did I say to turn onto Houston after Varick? Actually, I’m walking that way. You’re welcome. Actually, you can turn here, before Varick: this street dead ends at Film Forum. In fact, I’m going to Film Forum. Would you like me…
By midnight, Josif had downed five shots of whiskey, flirted with three girls the wrong side of half his age, and sprawled into a table, clattering aside glasses and bottles. It was my fault. I’d brought him. He was a contract worker from Croatia, and, despite monthly sojourns in the States, he had no friends….
1 my eyes are as big and Grimm as china saucers but this is no fairytale. i do my daily doings hurried to purposeful distraction, a couple of snits or fits if things work out—anything to keep my muddling mind off those kith among those missing if i’m lucky the headlines will be so outrageous…
A tang approaches, like the smell of snow. Illness like a color deepens— pale gray, thick-in-a-cloak gray, secret coat silk, and finally the weight of rough pelts heaped on the bed. The last enchantment of the day is tearing pages out of a book. The paper soft and thin, like falling asleep (a hand backstage…
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