Corrosive timescan always happen. Forever youngold servant of morality.Catches trout with bare hands.A slippery salacious sin.—from “Can Always Happen,” Translated by Aga Gabor Da Silva, Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.It was the poem “Soneto de fidelidade,” written by the famous Brazilian . . .
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Corrosive timescan always happen. Forever youngold servant of morality.Catches trout with bare hands.A slippery salacious sin.—from “Can Always Happen,” Translated by Aga Gabor Da Silva, Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.It was a text about loneliness, titled “Street. The Street Emptiness,” sort . . .
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My brother and I sign the hospice paperwork for our father on a Tuesday. On Wednesday, I fly to San Antonio for a conference even though half of the attendees cancel due to growing concerns about something called coronavirus. There are no travel restrictions or warnings in the United States. Public health . . .
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The baby encased in a thin membrane is something like a cross between a basketball and a cantaloupe. It lies at the woman’s feet on the bed. Her skin prickles at the sight of the living being moving inside. It is not trapped in her anymore; it is a separate being, helpless . . .
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When the forest fires in the northwest were no longer annual, monthlong catastrophes but a yearlong inferno, the question of what to do with the refugees pressed more urgently on both officials and those who lived on the ede of the woods. The occasional discovery of a moose in one’s garden had . . .
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I gave the devil a massage in broad daylight on hot summer grass. Skin on my palms began to burn and melt. Agony can feel good when it’s wrong. His moaning lulled me, kept me in the dark place. We didn’t dance but I assumed his pleasure formed inside me.—from “What the . . .
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I used to start each day with the same ritual. I would look in the mirror and say my name out loud. “Abigail,” I said , letting the sound of my dhort and long a’s surround me in the still -dim light. Then I would say “Abbie,” the name I used to . . .
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It was the promise that the trees will soon be strong enough for climbing that kept me looking forward to my family’s picnics. This was back during the short hiatus that separated the traumas of World War II from the violence that saw the birth of Israel in 1948. The promise was . . .
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The term slave refers to a faceless and nameless group of bodies: bodies brought to the United States and worked, tortured, and discarded for more than four centuries. In contrast to individuals who perished in the Holocaust, there are few true records of slaves having lived their lives as fully actualized people. Of course, . . .
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I want to tell you an unlikely story. I’d find it hard to believe if it hadn’t happened to me, so I’ll understand if you choose to take it with a pinch of salt. I assure you, however, that every word you’re about to read is true. I hope you’ll be able . . .
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