It was in that year the dog arrived On the farm, and I appeared in his eyes, A speck because I was made of flesh, Not fur, not tail, not paws thick as leather. I bent down, patted his coat, And I asked, Is it time now? The old stray was reddish brown, His breathing…
The cousins made a rough crossing, they’d have said, if they had thought to complain. They mentioned but didn’t lament the time in the air, the late arrival at De Gaulle, the bus ride to catch the train at the Gare Montparnasse, or the long wait for the Très Grand Vitesse to Bordeaux. They did…
1. Over and over, I think we have come to a place like this, dead sound stopping the soul in its eager conversations Or, a classical theme repeated over and over interrupted by a voice disguised as human: Please stay on the line Your call is very important to us 2. Don’t know if I…
We will weave through the labyrinth of headstones to clear the patch of soil where you rest, to plant a tall palm with leaves that know that north sea breeze, to roast a suckling pig. The blood of this pig will mingle with your bones, tickle your limbs, awake the bomba y plena pulse. We…
One day I get tired of crying and feeling sorry for myself—I’m not starving, I’m not in a war, I’m not crippled—and decide to track down my real father’s phone number. Isn’t it about time? I’m practically thirty years old. This is my life, right now. I call Cleveland information. I don’t know why I’m…
When Martín Espada turned twenty, a family friend gave him a copy of the anthology Latin American Revolutionary Poetry. Along with the gift, the friend ventured some words of prophecy: "Tú también serás poeta," he told Espada—"You will also become a poet." The book had been edited by Roberto Márquez, a Nuyorican (New York–born Puerto…
And Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son I have lived in tents and often, at midday, have I parted the tent-clothes and gone inside with the light of day so blinding my eyes that my wife spoke to me out of darkness, saying, Take this dish, and eat. I have walked among…
Ask most writers about their craft, and they’ll likely talk about character, setting, and narrative arc—the simple rise and fall of dramatic action. Ask Antonya Nelson, and she’ll surprise you with the structures and schematics she refers to as shape. Her story "Loaded Gun," for instance, tells of a teenager’s mounting frustration with her family…
Mason Salisbury and his son, Moreau, were hunting by Little Sandy Creek several miles from where the stream ran through town and powered the Salisbury mill. Father and son carried old fowling pieces and hadn’t brought the dogs; they weren’t hunting so much as talking. Moreau was home from seminary in Cazenovia. He hadn’t wanted…
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