Whenever my mom and dad were at the dinner table (the place of memorial and celebration, the place of conversation), I’d ask them about their days. I wanted to imagine their lives without me, their movements and rhythms when I was not there. What I was getting at, though I didn’t know . . .
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I’m so in love with you all of a sudden, you machine angel. Angel machine. Because I am still learning your new smells. Plastic, salt, animal, finally and still thinking plastic, salt, animal, finally. Because you are letting me stand you up in the shower and wash your hair like you are . . .
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Hannah doesn’t get on-campus housing for the summer, but she doesn’t want to go back to Missouri, back to her old life, back in time. The summer before, her first summer after starting college, she sat in basements sipping Budweiser as her formerly bookish friends swapped stories about frat parties. She sat . . .
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Maybe it was a reaction to old age; it could be thathe resented retired life. But the ex-neurologist,amateur collector of oriental coins, had recently taken to scolding his poor wife for all that prayingunder her breath, Mashallah-this and Inshallah-that.—from “Mr.Kemal Questions God,” Volume 64, Issue 1 (Spring 2023) Tell us about one . . .
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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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