Photograph by Joanna Eldredge Morrissey I stay outstretched in a Novembercoat, not abundant and not wantingto be. A machine I own mistook shootings for students in a transcript, usheringme to tilt canals toward titles and curatehedges into pages.—from “Table of Contexts,” Volume 64, Issue 1 (Spring 2023) Tell us about one of . . .
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Emergency crews got through a week after the storm. They cleared downed power lines and sawed through fallen trees, creating a way in and out and delivering food and water. But the heat was still off, and another storm was on the way, so Kate swept the prescription bottles into a bag . . .
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I should ask my mom if the blue-plaid, pleated skirt I wore for a few years in my childhood was an off-the-rack item or if she made it in her sewing class. When I first got it, I would reserve it for special occasions, but as the novelty wore off I started . . .
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If you give me half of what you brought to the stage last night, I’ll make you a record, girl. That’s what I tell Adriana. Her stage name is Adie Wells, but I’ve known her since monkey bars and hopscotch. She says, You goin’ think half when I blow a hole through this mic. I say, . . .
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Early August. The sun seriousabout itself, the breeze moodyas an infant, hushing its breathto a whisper, watching, then liftingall it had into a burst of joy.—from “Prophet,” Volume 64, Issue 1 (Spring 2023) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote:I’m assuming you don’t want to hear about the middle . . .
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eternity is different than anhour I you know this too thesun-bright teeth the mouth’s inherentnight what is ours——from “Everydayness,” Volume 64, Issue 1 (Spring 2023) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem I remember writing and thinking perhaps it was a poem, or doing a poem-like thing, . . .
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Three days into strippingthe third layer of painted wallpaperin a poorly ventilated powder roomand I am a sorrow river. My husbandsticks his head in to ask why—from “On Crying While Stripping Wallpaper,” Volume 64, Issue 1 (Spring 2023) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem I had . . .
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紫薯, a mother’s boiling incense, herbal ginger tea山峰, summit of skies, an unwrapped shin almost fire-scalded redtobacco, whistling grey pipe of meshed 廣州 air and 1970s pollutionmy father dodging into villages with naked children, small mounds of dirt baked with stolen potatoes, red snakes threading my mother’s inky bath—from “Red,” Volume . . .
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I am often mistaken for a tiny biting inset. No one cares to know my taxonomic name. The term “midge” will suffice. Any little two-winged fly can be a midge. There are highland midges and phantom midges, midges with affectionate nicknames like “punkies” and “no-see-ums.”—from “13 Considerations of the Holy Bug,” Volume . . .
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A small crushed garter snake lay belly up on the warm road. A baby maybe. I was cruising downhill in my manual wheelchair on a gently winding road in upstate New York when I encountered it—my very first roadkill. I passed it, then pushed back up a few yards to investigate.—from “You . . .
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