Only death::orse is real. Only forward is unhorse & the little graces & galactic undeeds—& you can’t slick nor kick to spur(n) a :: direhorse ::can never own a force—from “\DEAT {H :: O R S E} \\\,” Vol. 63, Issue 4 (Winter 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you . . .
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If only I could refrain from eating,the route to corruption and folly.I never deprive a mother of her sucklingsor have a share of a calf’s milk—from “If Only I Could Refrain from Eating” by Abū Al-‘Alā’ al-Ma’arrī, Translated by Salma Harland, Volume 63, Issue 4 (Winter 2022) Tell us about one of . . .
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I like to play with animals, to seewhat their bodies do when twistedand probed. I like the sounds they make.I grab a toad by the throat and move itinto an O as in Open wide, love.—from “The Chimp Speaks of Cruelty,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us about one of . . .
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Determinant meaning within the English language exists through the electric glue of our conjunctions. Sticky tiny words like “but” and “also” define the psyche’s trajectory in a story, and stories determine our relationships and behaviors. “And” and “also” are some of the least glamorous of the transitions and are often overlooked for . . .
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when the tigers break freethere is an unrestricted view of salvation but i fear this feeling of fullness—from “We Want Your Art but We Will Not Pay,” Volume 64, Issue 4 (Winter 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote:One of the first pieces I ever worked on was The . . .
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Photo credit: Jill Frank Ma speaks with her eyes focused on some faint mark on the table’s oilcloth. Hasnahena or Pāẏarā listens to the history of her naming again, after a long time. She has known it since her childhood. But, somehow, it is as though a festival celebrating her inconsequential human . . .
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In the country, I could be better. I could learn to weave baskets and identify edible plants. I could learn to sew, to sing, to wear my hair in loose braids that tickle my bare shoulders. Believe me, I know how it sounds. I know my reasons for wanting this life seem . . .
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In California, in a dumpster, a rattler layhalf-coiled atop a grease-soaked pizza box, half-cloaked by yesterday’s news.It was no friend of mine, the snake, though, to tell the truth, in such repose, no enemyeither.—from “It’s Never Just a Snake,” Vol. 63, Issue 3 (Fall 2022) Tell us about one of the . . .
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Ambahy—konantitra, I cannot comprehend this power that you wield. . . The power of death’s morbid attraction, of the will to turn toward anarchy, toward a world where nothing is sacred anymore, where nothing has more power than its own form . . . I do not know. Intense desire for emancipation . . .
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She’s sure she can’t be dreaming, becuase she can feel Nora’s hand on hers. The touch is light, barely there, but the cold bracelt is enough to bring her into the morning, back into the colorless room.“Aunt Peggy,” Nora whispers. “You’re having a bad dream.” The tops of Nora’s fingersgraze her forearm, . . .
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