After we make love, I think of the word obliterate how it means the destruction of something. I think hostile hands are everywhere. We should probably nail it all shut. I don’t have time to think back to the fourteenth century because too much is tangling roots this day and the day after.—from . . .
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When cleaved of their fur, rabbits look like they do not come from our planet. Perhaps they came to us, bare, from yours. Perhaps some of you came here with these creatures, their muscle and fat smooth around their lungs—the size of thumbs—and their eyes . . .
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Teeth marks are found in the back of a cop car.Cymbals clang on too-hot grits. My mental chatter is at the speed of rabbits thumping.Asphalt tapes the blood spill. A gold tooth crater smiles into . . .
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I’ve checked the box acknowledging that, whatever happens,it won’t be your fault—that my insurance policy will covereverything, except what actually breaks, that you are not responsiblefor any data corruption, any mistakes in my bloodwork results,that your mammogram can only detect so much.—from “Poem in Which I Read the Terms and Conditions,” Volume . . .
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while we yellowed in the pale strobes rumors began to arrive of a wide floor blown open of some clever thing —from “Catherine of Siena Fucks Up the Club,” Volume 64, Issue 3 (Fall 2023) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.What first comes to mind is that . . .
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“I tell Rudy that we really really need a new mattress and watch his mouth twist—he’s never thrilled about buying anything, much less a mattress that might take as long to pay off as a new car. The old one was supposed to last twenty years, and Rudy’s hell-bent on getting every . . .
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“Caught between Sister Eustace’s fingers, my ear is close to ripping off as she drags me through the schoolhouse and toward the steps that lead to the Mother Superior’s room. This is the only part of the morning that hasn’t gone to plan. I focus on the comforting weight of the silver . . .
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There is thought behind those eyes, said my headwhen it saw itself in the Polaroid held in my hand. My face was being eaten by the glow that dissolvedmy forehead into a luminous window because I was overexposed. This is no metaphor.—From “Exposure,” Volume 64, Issue 2 (Summer 2023) What writer(s) or . . .
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Author Vauhini Vara Chaya Bhuvaneswar: Tell us the journey of how you came to write the stories in this wonderful, unsettling collection. Were there some that came quickly and others that took more time? Vauhini Vara: For me, everything I write feels like a living document, up until the time it’s published in a . . .
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When Buddha said silence is an emptyspace & space is the home of the awakened mind, he hadn’t yet crossed his legs& held his spine both firm & calm in the smoke-filled avocado kitchenof my small girlhood.—from “Cuffing Season” by Lisa Fay Coutley, Volume 64, Issue 2 (Summer 2023) Tell us about one of . . .
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