Why not let my daughters tossrocks over the shed while birds bickerand dart through my wraparound mood? The girls remindme that wonderful means “full of wonder,”and that no tech company will ever simulatewhat’s happening in my nerves right now—the swig from a flask tucked in my shirt,the kid-squeals and birds obsessed with winter.Only an asshole…
Ending on a line by Jack Gilbert Want is still the centerof all living shapes,my daughter included. She’s gnawed off her deadends and scratched her throatinto a ragged line graph. It doesn’t work to tell herfive plus five, if you use both hands,can be a butterfly. Textbook splayed, she contemplatesthe application of integrals tothe area…
There are two piles of documents: the one on the righthas to become the one on the left.There is a paperweight in the shape of a whale. Some pages have almost nothing on them, maybeeight words floating in eggshell space.They have to be read too, so I do, I drift over them. Once I used…
“…they camped at eventide by the River of Forgetfulness, whose waters no vessel can contain…and each one as he drank forgot all things.”– Plato, Republic Imagine you are weary. Imagine you have carried the heftof skeletons for years. Imagine the day you fear death less than living long. Imaginearriving at the blue ribbon of river& across…
Husking the foxtail millet gives it a new namewhere I’m from, the abundant attention staple cropscommand not so different from superhero reboots oneafter another, a man shedding a capeis a new man with a new past. I wanted to explain thisthe time a man in a corner office said he knew a saying from China:“The…
but I knew there were secrets. We all knew and we all strong-armed the chesty life vests back into their shed like lovers backed into closets. Only at that lake did I play spies; only there did I try writing with my sinister hand: Tin of poison in nightstand. But it was just decorum putting those deadly caroms in drawers where no one…
My student spends his summers in city cemeteries,clipping the scruff that grows too close to the stones or anywhere the mowers can’t go. Sundays mostly the death-jilted come, some to pledge the stiffwith a fifth, some to Windex the pane of granite.Some of those leftcome to sob nearer the leaveror, anyway, nearerthe dregs that pool…
In poetry, our winner is Mariya Zilberman for her poem “Against Temporality.” Of her poem, poetry judge Ilya Kaminsky says, “This poem dares to be simple: and, as a result, the nuances are uncovered in the tension between image and time, detail and emotion, silences and linebreaks. We are presented with a number of details,…
1. STORY Shhhh! her mother said. Sit down.Next to me. Time to read. The girl climbed up on the couch,crossed her ankles. Pay attention. A yellow picture book. Notice that the word “monkey” sounds like “Monica.” The title character.George, lived in Africa, a continent that on her globe was colored red.The leaves on the skinny…
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