I dreamed my mother called my name in a voice that ached with longing. I dreamed the acrid smoke of a fire stung my eyes, blurred the edges of the woman who held a deer antler with both hands as she pulled on a smoldering block of damp wood. The flames were . . .
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Mouth full of raven’s bones, eyes black beaks, on our exhausted bellieswe umbilicus to Earth. .54 mm bullets light up our backs, exit our bellies Pre-K: St. Michaels, AZ. Nuns, black scapular and white cowl, shuntmilk-blood prayers down constricted throats; gurgling cramped bellies.—from “Ghazal VI,” Volume 61, Issue 4 Tell us about . . .
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The ilium represents the pelvis of a female. If the remains are one individual, it appears that she was a female, and DNA testing indicates Native American ancestry. However, given the limited data for various tribes of the area, and the custom of intermarriage that results from a taboo against cousin marriage, . . .
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They drink like frat boys on spring break, like frat boys on game day. They drink like frat boys in the movies. But they are not frat boys, not yet, and it’s a Monday night three weeks into their first semester. Each drink builds unity, helps them forget the hazing at dinner. . . .
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A child walks the familiar road.A body is found at the mile mark.Still they do not suspect foul play.Still they say she was Not Afraid.—from “Girls Are Coming Out of the Water,” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem . . .
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This all happened in one of those good stretches of years, a time I like to call Pax Smiley. It wasn’t as bad as the Navy, or the six years I spent at Lino Lakes and various country lockups across the state of Wisconsin. I had that house at the end of . . .
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You don’t just get to decide to start eatin again, it happens slow,a groggy crawl and stumble out of a dream.I didn’t choose to starve mysel,I didn’t choose to stop. It was a cycle, my own metamorphosis—from “‘Eating like a Bird, It’s Really a Falsity,’” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell . . .
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dá’ák’ehdi dá’át’ąą yiighaad yéego dootł’izh ‘iiná yiłNiłtsą́ Bi’áád yiilzhoł shádi’aah dę́ę́—from “dá’ák’ehdi (in the cornfield),” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I attended a Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) boarding school from tenth grade until graduation. It was one of those schools that . . .
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“Jim,” she said. He turned to her. He was sitting on the couch in the living room, that same sinking couch that had belonged to his parents, as had the house. She was in the kitchen making something to eat. They had been out late the night before, and had woken up . . .
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The first day of their year arrived four weeks later than the rest of the world’s. Or, perhaps, the rest of the world’s year had simply started forty-eight weeks early. In either case, the day was marked by great occasion: work and study were suspended for a week to accommodate cross-country travel . . .
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