There is a section in my library for death and another for Irish history, a few shelves for the poetry of China and Japan, and in the center a row of imperturbable reference books, the ones you can turn to anytime, when the night is going wrong or when the day is full of empty…
When I closed my eyes I thought about playing tennis with him a long time ago on the deserted court, a mile from the ocean. And the rallies that lasted a long time. While the overhead clouds drifted like gulls. Thought not so much about him as the field of us. The sun-embalmed afternoons…
Cohen Awards Each year, we honor the best short story and poem 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…
for Mary Sorry for the tardiness of my response. I’ve been lost in thought, unable to reach you. Your message arrived, brown, brain-sized nut, stripped to its rough shell, my name and address singed on. I want you to know I read it carefully, held it to my ear and listened to the mystery that…
The child is being pushed by the mother, in the swing that lifts over the deep lawn in May. Is being pushed towards the tall hedge of bamboo where the father must go in a world that is houses and neighbors gardens and furniture. Until the child floats backwards through the air to be…
MASTHEAD Guest Editor Lorrie Moore Editor Don Lee Poetry Editor David Daniel Associate Editor Susan Conley Assistant Fiction Editor Maryanne O'Hara Founding Editor DeWitt Henry Founding Publisher Peter O'Malley Editorial Assistants: Gregg Rosenblum, Amy King, Samantha Myers, and Tom Herd. Fiction Readers: Scott Clavenna, Monique Hamzé, Tammy Zambo, Emily Doherty, Leah Stewart, Michael Rainho, Andrea…
I knew a force lay hidden in the air that could raise this heat from only a spark, lick the sky and still be hungry. I lit a page of rolled up news and ran out back with arm upraised and stuck it under. It didn’t catch at first. I threw a cup of diesel…
We need centuries of them. You wake up late in the morning, the dark wind flowing through you, and all day long it is the only thing that makes sense: wind, that slides a hand under your boots on the pavement and carries; wind, that slices at the lips and cuts. In it we listen…
In a brief introduction to the last issue of Ploughshares I guest-edited (Spring 1985, Vol. 11, No. 1), I noted that nearly twelve years had passed since the first issue I edited (Summer 1973, Vol. 1, No. 4) and that I’d be happy to do it again in another dozen years or so. Blink: a…
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