In one chemical future, the clouds themselves will be extinct, so we try to hold them in mind as they float by casting their individual storm-sized shadows across the animals across the plains.—from “Glacier Haibun,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I started . . .
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Abuela doesn’t want to die. She’s still holding on to life for the stubbornness of it. And on one of the worst days to head down the mountainside, Ma and Pa decided to drag Diego and me to see her.—from “A Death Foretold,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about . . .
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Here is a portion of the silence we walk upon, where the stony shore of the Atlantic curls breakers of salt onto a shelf of the lithospheric dead. At our feet, ammonites in their obsidian-colored whorls.—from “The Jurassic Coast,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first . . .
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August besieged California with a heatunseen in generations.I watched as towering plumes of smokebillowed from distant hills in all directionsand air tankers crisscrossed the skies.—from “The Fire Sermon,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.Stendiamo un velo pietoso. What writer(s) or works have . . .
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Alex Kuo in Beijing’s 798 Photo credit: Zoe Filipkowska Pyne’s count could be extrapolated further: a hundred cloud-to-ground lightning strikes per second. Such strikes account for about 10 percent of the annual wildfires in the United States, and since 1982, there has been an alarming rise in the total number, directly linked . . .
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A tankercapsized offthe Georgia coast, 4,000 Hyundaisslippingto their murky deaths—From “The Book of Other,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I can do more than tell you about it. Here it is: Kiwi Fuzzy footballin the sand.Shave the beardand bite the chin. In . . .
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My mother does not know a lot of things, and yet she remembers many things. When I tell her over the phone that I am thinking of learning how to sail a boat, she does not ask how it is that I could do something like this in Tehran, a city far . . .
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My mother does not know a lot of things, and yet she remembers many things. When I tell her over the phone that I am thinking of learning how to sail a boat, she does not ask how it is that I could do something like this in Tehran, a city far . . .
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My last (Soma)tic poetry ritual, “Resurrect Extinct Vibration,” used audio field recordings of animals who have become extinct in my lifetime. The ritual momentarily returned the music of the disappeared back to the air, the body, and the land.—from Ignition Chronicles, Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2022) Tell us about one of . . .
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Five miles from Buchtel the snow has turned to rain, the creek laps the edges of the road. Tomorrow the ground will freeze again, flood trapped, no place to go—from “Rt. 13, Late May,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first . . .
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