MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue Maura Stanton Managing Editor / Associate Fiction Editor Don Lee Office Manager David Daniel Associate Poetry Editor Jennifer Rose Editorial Assistant Elizabeth Detwiler Typesetting Barbara Levy and INPRINT Thanks this issue to: Our interns Sarah Baker and Christopher Wysocki, and our readers Rafael Campo,…
Off Havana the ocean is green this morning of my birth. The conchers clean their knives on leather straps and watch the sky while three couples who have been dancing on the deck of a ship in the harbor, the old harbor of the fifties, kiss each other's cheeks and call it a night. On…
I blow on the fire to help it find its wood. The corners of the room are askew. The files have knuckles hard as teak. They bang out sentences on the insides of lampshades, as if it were a party game. A skull sits on its occiput by the window, looking up among glass fused…
An Introduction There is no such thing, that great figure of American morality Andrew Mellon said, as an act of virtue that goes unpunished. It often seems that the act of addressing the very subject of virtue is its own punishment. Wherever we turn these days we hear a latest crisis described in terms of…
And a feature about the only son of the famous “Angel of Death,” the man who experimented at Auschwitz on all those dwarfs and twins. I fold the section once in half and then in half again, as if to narrow focus, but glimpse instead a lizard as it shoots up the steps outside then…
The story is told of Ryokan, a teacher who lived in a small hut, that one day while walking along a potato field, he was overtaken by the desire to shit. Now the owner, who was suffering a series of thefts, had hidden nearby. When he saw Ryokan all bent over he leapt up and…
What is this writing life? I was living alone in a house once, and had set up a study on the first floor. A portable green Smith-Corona typewriter sat on the table against the wall. I made the mistake of leaving the room. I was upstairs when I felt the first tremor. The floor wagged…
When I first arrived in this city I heard coins falling through the air like rain, light collecting on dusty sleeves, in gum boxes and tins; the addicts walked by a smoking pail humming into their hands. We hiked one afternoon along the river, picnicked in the ruins of a trolley station and played with…
The Heart wants what it wants— or else it does not care— —Emily Dickinson So still. Not a cricket. In this heat the trees around the house hold motionless even at midnight. I trundle the electric fan, little pool of wind, along with me from room to room, and imagine Emily Dickinson carrying a candle…
No products in the cart.