I used to start each day with the same ritual. I would look in the mirror and say my name out loud. “Abigail,” I said , letting the sound of my dhort and long a’s surround me in the still -dim light. Then I would say “Abbie,” the name I used to . . .
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It was the promise that the trees will soon be strong enough for climbing that kept me looking forward to my family’s picnics. This was back during the short hiatus that separated the traumas of World War II from the violence that saw the birth of Israel in 1948. The promise was . . .
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The term slave refers to a faceless and nameless group of bodies: bodies brought to the United States and worked, tortured, and discarded for more than four centuries. In contrast to individuals who perished in the Holocaust, there are few true records of slaves having lived their lives as fully actualized people. Of course, . . .
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I want to tell you an unlikely story. I’d find it hard to believe if it hadn’t happened to me, so I’ll understand if you choose to take it with a pinch of salt. I assure you, however, that every word you’re about to read is true. I hope you’ll be able . . .
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On Main Boulevard, the Ramzan traffic comes to a halt. The car heater makes a whirring noise. A thin layer of fog hovers in front of our Honda City. On the radio, the singer Junaid Jamshed recites a naat. In an interview, he has said that Pakistani women should stay at home. . . .
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Begin with a plantthen an animal. Moveyour way up the chain of needtill you’ve learned enoughabout sacrifice and scooping poopto join the ranks of mother.—from “Naturally,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.Let’s see. There is one that has always stuck with me. . . .
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Write to me—do not text—in your unpracticed hand.A postcard with a stamp. Write until you run out of room—up the sides in smaller and smaller letters, dear little e’s,outrageous y’s and confusing s’s; send a photograph—from “Mosses and Ivies,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first . . .
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Shattered silverfish bodies in the vanity globes,they know me. How I hate my body, how it’s been abandoning me. How I look up to the light to notsee mirrored back the emptying cup of my jaw,—from “To a Wild Place,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the . . .
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Above the pitted black coast, at the house that looks accidentally built, the floodlights have been left on. The owner is not there. He only comes during the winter, when the waves rise and he can pick his way down the cliff to ride the surf off the reef, some two hundred . . .
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in 1980, my father saw my mother’s photo in a magazine, then left connecticut. road-tripped to meet her where she lived in arizona. who would stay in connecticut?—from “Qui Transtulit Sustinet,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.How far back are we going? . . .
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