Rain fell violently through the night. San Ye thought of the gravestones in Dongba, and the flesh and bones beneath, and the clothes and things buried with the bodies. The coffins must be swimming in slimy muck. . . he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until dawn, got up, and looked . . .
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“I don’t consider myself sensual,” Antonia said, pulling the sheet across her torso and stroking his hair. Miguel smiled without her noticing. He knew she was trying to draw out praise for her skin, her body, her lips. Antonia was provoking him. She knew she was irresistible. She knew that any movement . . .
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In Edinburgh I could not understand what the cabdriver said as he drove me to the restaurant, and inside the only person who would speak to me was a Lithuanian with pink hair, who leaned above her wine and whispered, nothing is familiar.—from “Wood and Wire,” Volume 61, Issue 3 (Fall 2020) Tell . . .
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But what is a Chinaman to do with Africa,I hear you ask, on the great green waters that separate the forets of Madagascar from Mozambique Island,where half a million women and men walked down stone ramps into waiting ships?—from “For My Father the West Begins in Africa,” Volume 61, Issue 3 (Fall . . .
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One candle will suffice. The light somewhat subduedwill be better suited, will be more agreeableas Love is drawing closer, as its Shadows arrive. One candle will suffice. The room should not indulgein too much light tonight.—from “For them to arrive” by C.P. Cavafy, Translated by Alex de Voogt Tell us about one . . .
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First, we were taught how to spellHis name, then we were told to draw Him.It was an exercise in metaphor.The balls of paper amassed before mewhile my class mates drew stars, maps of the Holy Land.I thought I should color everything I could think of—from “G-d, a Portrait,” Volume 61, Issue 3 . . .
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The only architecturally modern building in Nyamata is the town church. Or at least it was. Ot still stands today, one story tall, made from bricks, with a high-ceilinged sanctuary in the middle. Back in its full glory the church was the centerpiece of Nyamata, a small village on a hill in . . .
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Abdullah was the first to forget her. Standing at the counter with a soda and a pack of wintergreen gum, she assumed that the shop owner—with whom she prided herself on having established a rapport; it made her feel like a local—was just having a bad day. “How’s everything going?” she asked . . .
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Hamid’s wife has been in the hospital for two days. At the Gynae ward of the Medical College. No indication for delivery yet. At times she feels a little pain—not so severe, though. If asked, the nurse says that the doctor will wait a day more, otherwiseshe’ll need an operation. Operation!—from”The Color . . .
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Greg was gone for nine months before he returned. The same amount of time it takes to grow a child, Jess would often say. What he went through was much more difficult than being pregnant, he would remind her, letting his voice catch on the last vowel. He did this often lately, . . .
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