“In Long Island, I prepared to do a mitzvah. My breakdancing crew didn’t ask me about the bombing in Dallas yesterday—the news more front-page than the San Diego ICE raids or the Dominican kid shot in the Bronx last weekend. Just as I didn’t ask which of my boys were undocumented. Maybe . . .
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“My dream awakens after sleep. I cannot swearthese are my hands. The night is probing the airfor bodies asking a little grace from the watery moon.”—from “Trying to Pray,” Volume 60, Issue 2 (Summer 2019) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.As an undergraduate I took a class with Mary . . .
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“When I shook hands with himhis hand remained in my handthat’s how he is, generous, I told myselfas I tried to get rid of his warm handthat grasped my own ever more tightly” —From “Two Snails Stuck to My Cheeks,” by Matei Visniec, translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Lidia Vianu, Summer 2019 (Vol. . . .
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“it’s true that we’d been very closebut never did I imagine thatI’d see him flayed right before my eyeswith his heart tumbling down to my feetjust because we were going to say goodbye” —From “Two Snails Stuck to My Cheek,” by Matei Visniec, translated by Adam J. Sorkin and Lidia Vianu, Summer . . .
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The lake moves, blue to blue. Runnels, droplets,oar-lifted slap dull chimes against gunwales. The blue dress and white kerchief are a young womancrossing what she can’t escape. She forcesa calm, makes a quiet pool of herself. —from “A Finnish Lake,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Is there a city or place, real or . . .
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“My Dad took me out of kindergarten before the end of the semester, and we flew to Europe. We’re American, but 1961 was a good time for us to be out of the country. My father, C. Wright Mills—a sociologist and pioneering social critic—was embroiled in troubles, both political and personal.” —From . . .
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“To a woman with Alzheimer’s a dark red ruglooks like a hole in the floor—a bloody hole. She can’t open her front doorwithout stepping past it… —From “Irish Music,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.In sixth grade, I began working on a Nancy-Drew-style . . .
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“We’ve never read her a story without a happy ending.The divorced dad and his daughter make pizza. The rabbit loves chores.When I flipped my mom’s suburban on 290, all the windows broke.We climbed out of the passenger side, the cuts on our armsThe only injuries we got.” —From “Watching Sophia with my . . .
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When he you, you sat in the surf a day and night, let the lap of Caribbean obscure your thighs, let the minnows run their purple races across your thighs and finchestear red cords from your scalp… —From “Anne Bonny Marooned with Child,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of . . .
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“Corporal Belknap’s eyes were gone, white cotton: he must have drunk twenty beers himself. Which explained why he was leaning against the Humvee like a bike without a kickstand, why Sullivan couldn’t deceipher his latest slurred monologue—a single word he kept repeating, something like hurt, or heart, or was it help? – From “Gasoline,” Summer 2019 . . .
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