The SOAP note (an acronym for subjective, objective, assessment, and plan) is a method of documentation employed by healthcare providers. —Wikipedia S / The patient’s chief complaintis that he no longer feelsimmortal, even whenhe flies. He reports a firebeneath his shoulder bladethat radiates to the left arm.It hurts to make music He reports a changein sensation, the buzzingfuss of a hive,…
In summer, it hurts to look up, so I name wheeling birds by their shadows: bald eagle, Cooper’s hawk. In the water, ripples angle into arrowheads aimed at marshland. Wheeling, a watchful turning, the city where my grandmother lived, married, worked as a typist. Arrowheads, shards of obsidian she gave me when grandfather died. I…
Here we have wide margins for achieving second childhood. Napping is a kind of reverence. We listen for what happens as we doze. We rise and organize ourselves into clamorous sections: the great aunts shout one part, the great uncles another. Here we flash through each other, clapping like cymbals. Inside spills outside, outside spills…
In poetry, our winner is Giovannai Rosa, for their poem “untitled sugar poem.” Of the poem, poetry judge Chen Chen says, “I love it when a poem makes me gasp because of its language and its turns—and this one made me gasp at multiple points. Then, rereading it and realizing: of course a poem thinking…
A blur of movement where it does not belong,a white floater in the window’s darkening eye. A plastic bag, I think, caught in an updraftor a bit of the dying yucca’s autumn fluff, but I discover it is a hawk, all muscled breastand feathered intent, settling to perch in the tree outside my window, to…
The museum is nearly empty the day we visit the Mitchell retrospective. We can wander, painting to painting. He removes his blue-framed glasses, leaning close. The modernists, he says, painted for the home, not galleries. We should be viewing these pictures seated in wingbacks. At ninety, he is my oldest friend. At ninety, he’s lost…
glass begets glass—the anniad i pray about myself to myself and because of that i listen—i imagineanother body where there is none—i can touch, from here,an icicle, though i’d never—there are small infinities and largeinfinities, and what is unreachable is sometimes perfectlywithin reach—that is the thing about the evening: while as a childi might touch…
Translation by Martyn Crucefix and Nancy Feng Liang I woke this morning to find my house surroundedby two things:the turtledove and the willow. When I write,there is the sculpted turtledove, the spoken willow.When I drink tea,the replete turtledove, the hollowed-out willow.When I cannot get to sleep,the scattershot turtledove and the focus of the willow.When I…
After it all, a bridesmaid hands you the vodka you’ve waited for, so clear and chill it tastes bell-like against your tongue, as though it could hollow you from your heart outward, hollow you as February hollows the fields beyond the church, the sliced cornstalks thinly rustling. You’re impatient for crocuses, for their scent of fresh petrichor, their…
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