“…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…
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…
A violent stirring of the interiorunfolding by churns. What we begin with is disequilibrium.The slurred echoing of the eye. Call it misrecognition:thinking it’s the earth that’s blurrywhen it’s the mind. – Lost are the coordinatesof the spirit, or the animalintuition that binds— What I mistook for a border was but a moving pointwhich makes me limitless,somehow…
Aging, he grew sure the country was gone to hell,not because of me but people too much like mefor me to tell the difference. And yethe’d shown me how to mound dark soil,firm and careful, around a cucumber seedlingto help it grow. Had let me drive the tractoror pretend, sitting on his lap as he…
—For Feiga Maler, 1919-1942, who died in the Kraków Ghetto Night after night, what she saw in her sleep:an upside down Havdalah candle like the one she litto usher in a new week at the end of every Sabbath, praying, “Blessed God, who separates light from dark…” The candle in her dreams, like her real…
No products in the cart.