The glass under her forearms was smudged with cloudy fingerprints. An ant wandered aimlessly across the counter, island-hopping from one oily smear to another. She watched as it shuffled, the quick movements of its legs and constant swivels of its antennae creating the impression of a creature lost and blind. Is it thinking? she . . .
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I studied flamenco for a few years when I was an undergraduate. I had signed up, hoping for an easy credit. On the first day, the teacher showed a class of sixty what kind of shoes we needed; the ones with the nails hammered into a small dome on the two-inch heel . . .
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Nowhere an Uber or LyftI wondered about fate and taxis counted seconds to minutes to years sinceI last looked at this watch Dirt, long since thrown upon graves and casketstheir resonant thuds quelled—from “I was hurried, not agitated,” from Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first . . .
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a: You are chopping onions for yet another pot of lentils, hips pressed up against the kitchen counter, when first you hear it. The sound of mewling. Barely audible. You put down your knife. b: One year earlier, on fellowship in Kansas, you are returning to your Airbnb from your walk. You . . .
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In the end days, eyesturn around, softened mouth like fog on the window. The first tongue to catch the new language is a rotten egg—from “Salt for the Stain,” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.At first, my poems were basically a . . .
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a friend and i talk rainforest infernos,how she’d had hopefor that failed carbon schemethat i’d always known to becore of ash, not white hope—from “prayer for baby breath,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.In the ‘90s (perhaps you, too, are transported by . . .
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‘Ałk áą́’i’, long ago.Bąą, on account of, before our people emerged to the fourth world, Nihalgai, Glittering world.Chahałheeł, darkness, happened, and we would adapt to newness, the light, ‘adinídíín.Ch’ah and the western wear—the urban Indian cowboy, and for some, ranching became routine and we honored the animals since we emerged with them. Now . . .
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This is the story of when I stopped trusting people. I’m seventeen, living the life. Work all day, drink all night, never worrying about bills or tomorrow. The songs I was listening to were my script. We’ve all been there; I don’t need to go into it. What happened, though, was that . . .
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Hosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey yaHosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey yaHosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey yaHosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey ya—from “Sonnet 1,” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I took a creative writing class in high school. I wrote a poem about my father. It was . . .
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On December 17, 2019, Lou Reed suspended his wild walk with death long enough to show me the cover art for the vinyl version of the extended single he had just recorded, a seventeen-minute-and-twenty-nine-secon rager called “Koy A’hoga.” The only image I have from this dream is the cover with Lou’s thumb . . .
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