Harris was walking his usual route to work, up Beacon Street and past the State House, when half a block ahead he saw their stolen car stopped at a red light. It was their missing car, all right-a white ’94 Honda Accord, license plate 432 dog, easy to remember-and it was still pumping out pale…
Gerald Stern, Last Blue, poems: Philip Levine writes, “This is a sparer Stern than we’re used to; for years he’s been our Whitman for the present hour. He still is, but he’s writing now with a tighter focus, as though he had to make every word count. The best news is he does. ‘Ravages’…
In that hour of boundless night when dark tugs at me with its bustle and fuss and the grass outside my window, gone a deep blue, chirrs and clicks with crickets and my thoughts flop and twitch like fish in a galvanized bucket and sweat soaks the sheets, collecting in drops down my spine and…
Alice Leung has discovered the secrets of bats: how they see without seeing, how they own darkness, as we own light. She walks the halls with a black headband across her eyes, keening a high C- cheat cheat cheat cheat cheat cheat-never once veering off course, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Echolocation, she…
MASTHEAD Guest Editor Gish Jen Editor Don Lee Poetry Editor David Daniel Assistant Editor Gregg Rosenblum Assistant Fiction Editor Maryanne O"Hara Associate Poetry Editor Susan Conley Founding Editor DeWitt Henry Founding Publisher Peter O"Malley Assistant Fiction Editor: Nicole Hein Kelley. Editorial Assistants: Kelly Kervick and Stephanie Wilder. Fiction Readers: Darla Bruno, Laurel Santini, Elizabeth Pease,…
Mid-August. Crippling heat. Torpor. Lungs weighed down by the stubborn air. Sudden, hyperbolic, dog-startling storms each afternoon, uninspired repertoire of kettle- and window-rattling. Who’d settle for an arrangement like this? Who wouldn’t? Too hot to do otherwise. Hard to think twice or overachieve in such weather. One is compelled to be dumb, to slump on…
from a memoir in progress 1. El hombre que yo amo The night before I left my mother, I wrote a letter. ” Querida Mami,” it began. Querida, beloved, Mami, I wrote, on the same page as el hombre que yo amo, the man I love. I’d struggled with those words, because I wasn’t certain…
For the first time in my life, I had writer’s block. This writer’s block was so bad, so pervasive, so debilitating and humiliating (and so pretentiously stereotypical) that I couldn’t write anything. Or perhaps, more accurately stated, I couldn’t write anything with any sort of confidence. The words still filled up the page, but I…
translated by Angela Ball When dolphins follow the boats, they dress in pink to soften the hate in men’s gazes. “How can they hate us if we make love like they do?” Many say that at night the dolphins grow pubic hair and go out stealing women. The children think that the dolphins are gringos…
No products in the cart.