- By Abby MacGregor
He asks me to buy him a drink,
his face a mirror whose patina has erased
its reflection, features falling away like rust.
I offer him my own, a drink whose name
I cannot remember but means dirt path
in one of the dead languages I’ve studied.
—from “The Day I Met the Hanged Man,” Winter 2017 (Vol. 58, Issue 4)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
The first piece I wrote was as a senior in high school. It was about addiction, a subject I knew nothing about, but the high I got from writing it is a feeling I will never forget. I’m still...