Milkmen returned to their jobs. Sales of private jets and air purifiers went through the roof. There were shortages, but they were short-lived:coins, toilet paper, bleach.—from “Things I Forgot to Tell You about the End of the World,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces . . .
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My first real job: barmaid.I stood: I stared. I pouredcabernet: I dried expensivewine glasses with a chamois cloth—from “Psalm,” Volume 61, Issue 3 (Fall 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I made my first chapbook when I was five, with colored construction paper and yarn: a short allegorical . . .
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Look, I’m alive. And this park, Wright Park it’s called—a scrappy woodland just a half mile down the road from my home—is alive too, living and dying at once, whether I’m there to see it or not.—from “Wildflower Season,” Volume 62, Issue 3 (Fall 2021) Tell us about one of the first . . .
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Still it keeps encroaching, the prickly dread, waiting past midnight as sleep comes in stutters, until you quit trying. As branches scratch tree songs at your windows and shadows scurry like mice across the sills. Because time is ticking down. An inevtiable end approaching, the unmarked cars turning onto your street, their . . .
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When someone is brought back from an overdose by Narcan, it can be a violent business: the body goes into immediate and intense withdrawal, and it can feel like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you. The person may be confused and terrified, and so it seems a reasonable repsonse to . . .
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As soon as the lamp was lit at six every evening and the chickens fluttered down from the cacao and jackfruit trees, Father would leave/ He wore shabby military fatigues, boots as large as my legs, and an antique amulet on which was inscribed an Angelus that only Father could read and . . .
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First, in complete silence, the yellow wall in my room cracks, spreading its spiderweb threads as quickly and as slowly as is possible only in a dream. Chills are crawling down my spine; hot flashes throb into my head. This is panic, fear, terror—a preverbal, pre-Russian sensation that as yet has no . . .
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I slept the sleep of the deadonce. Once, could not be wokenin time to do what it wasI had to do.Did not hear the ring of. Did not hearthe rap of. Was called. Was shaken. Rosegroggy, stumblingdown the hall, my mother saying, Lookat who has finally graced us with her presence. … —from . . .
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Severalancient skulls unearthed in Ethiopiawith butchery marks around the eye sockets and occipital bones It’s called “pot polishing”— A sign that bones have been boiled for reasons of cookery——from “Cannibalism,” Volume 62, Issue 3 (Fall 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.When I was about eight years old, . . .
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Outside my mother’s bedroom windowin the memory care unit, sparrowsand Carolina chickadees play hide-and-seekin holly bushes lit with winter’s red berries.—from “Stripes,” Volume 62, Issue 3 (Fall 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem I wrote was about standing by the pond at dawn watching a . . .
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