He took him outside and said, “Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them.” And He added, “So shall your offspring be.” I have lived in tents and know how faint a trace we leave behind us on the earth; how, when the body fails, the soul folds its…
They’re going to Glasgow, they’re going to Inverness and to Skye. They’ll ride over bogs of musk ox and arctic foxes, tracing the scat of polar bears, open-mouthed masses swallowing snatches of blue vacancies, ragged absences filling the empty air, sea birds climbing, vanishing only to emerge in Reykjavík and west, soaring…
To say this fine fall morning that Joy is in the air is true: courtesy of KSUT-FM, broadcasting from the Southern Ute Reservation, this startling cut from the CD Letter from the End of the Twentieth Century, half-read, half-sung, is one of many by Joy Harjo and her band, Poetic Justice, regularly heard on FM…
If I arrived early, I had to listen To hundreds of sewing machines Spiraling their high-pitched arias Up against the mill’s metal shell. Each woman, a soloist withdrawn Into her small cubicle of work, Sang the crazy hope of piecework— Another zipper, another dollar. A wall chart traced their numbers In money’s green line. It…
In the days when a man would hold a swarm of words inside his belly, nestled against his spleen, singing. In the days of nightriders when life tongued a reed till blues & sorrow songs called out of the deep night: Another man done gone. Another man done gone. In the days when one…
MASTHEAD Guest Editor Joy Harjo Editor Don Lee Managing Editor Gregg Rosenblum Poetry Editor David Daniel Associate Fiction Editor Maryanne O’Hara Founding Editor DeWitt Henry Founding Publisher Peter O’Malley Assistant Fiction Editors: Jay Baron Nicorvo and Nicole Kelley. Editorial Assistants: Shannon Miller and Elizabeth E. Partfitt. Bookshelf Advisors: Fred Leebron and Cate Marvin. Proofreader: Megan…
from The Diary of Francis Kilvert One bell wouldn’t ring loud enough. So they beat the bell to hell, Max, with an axe, show it who’s boss, boss. Me, I dreamt I dwelt in someplace one could relax but I was wrong, wrong, wrong. You got a song, man, sing it. You got a…
Has a glow to it, distant and round at the end of the mine shaft, a yellow malignant light. Once seen, it loses power, becomes tarnished and dull as river stones, lifted from their affair with water. Money that has lain too long in the vault no longer has value. The currencies we so believed…
I woke up this morning with my mouth full of words Like “Crenellated battlements,” and cranciousness And bicycles with “derailleur” and flywheels and tappets. These words must be escapees from where they grew bored. Stuck in the same old sentences they decided to break out And now they are fugitives in my mouth and ears….
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