From our Winter 2025 Special Issue, Mae Ellen-Marie Wissert reads her poem “one night outlaw”: Originally from Idaho, Mae Ellen-Marie Wissert is currently an MFA student of poetry at the University of Mississippi. Her poetry is published in West Trade Review and is forthcoming in North American Review. She can be contacted through her email, mewisser@go.olemiss.edu.
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Editor’s note: Going forward, our author interviews will be moving away from the 10 Questions series and instead will take different forms depending on the author’s wishes. We’re hoping this provides a more diverse and specific reading experience, and also makes room for author-led creative projects and discussions down the line! “My . . .
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66. IT SHOULD be noted that, to date, there is no physical evidencethat Anna Kavan had cats. Her surviving letters, diaries, notebooks, marginalia, memorabilia,and photographs contain no signs of felines. Nevertheless, a substantialbody of Kavan scholarship has formed around the question of Kavan’scats.—from Steven R. Kraaijeveld’s “Anna Kavan’s Cats” (Volume 66, issue . . .
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What I mean is, there are waysback in when your brain has checked you out:singing badly, for example. Making uglinessa god of sorts. Knowing yourself as a person thatcan be unwillingly . . .
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Not just one death,one victim tells another:they killed me by the roadside. —from Ibrahim Fawzy’s translation of Maya Abu Al-Hayyat’s “Not Just One Death” (Volume 65, issue 4) What role does language play in resisting colonialism and precipitating liberation? How does your piece engage with this question?Language is not merely a medium . . .
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A light split the room where Rubén Darío was trying to write. On that side, a copy of Don Quixote; on this side, the untrimmed sheets of paper with words crossed out and the unread letter from a young poet in search of guidance and assistance. —from Mark Schafer’s translation of David . . .
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I greet an ancient refrigerator,once my father, now reduced to bare bones, yetit remains unbearably heavy. —from Jack Saebyok Jung’s translation of Heeum’s “The Use of a Window” (Volume 66, issue 3) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.One of the earliest pieces I translated was a poem by . . .
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“Brianna80.” I like the round number, eighty. 4s, 8s, multiples of 10, a number I would have written as a child on and on, practicing my numbers: 8 then 0 then 8 then 0, looping like kids holding hands in a playground. The number eighty, attached to the temporary name Bri-anna, was . . .
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The sun has coppered his brownas it has the mud on which we walk.Palms banana trees grow against the whitewall we barely see. Blue finches singin the wire cage he carries. Its greenperch is the same green as his trunks. —from Myronn Hardy’s “The Cage” (Volume 66, issue 3) Tell us about . . .
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MISS TANG was a plump woman in her thirties and our seventh-grade homeroom teacher. She had a kind, matronly smile but sprung into tantrums over trifles. Her punishment of choice was meditation. After school, we’d sit at our desks with straight backs, knee-bound palms, and closed-tight eyes while Miss Tang surveilled us . . .
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