On Main Boulevard, the Ramzan traffic comes to a halt. The car heater makes a whirring noise. A thin layer of fog hovers in front of our Honda City. On the radio, the singer Junaid Jamshed recites a naat. In an interview, he has said that Pakistani women should stay at home. . . .
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Begin with a plantthen an animal. Moveyour way up the chain of needtill you’ve learned enoughabout sacrifice and scooping poopto join the ranks of mother.—from “Naturally,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.Let’s see. There is one that has always stuck with me. . . .
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Write to me—do not text—in your unpracticed hand.A postcard with a stamp. Write until you run out of room—up the sides in smaller and smaller letters, dear little e’s,outrageous y’s and confusing s’s; send a photograph—from “Mosses and Ivies,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first . . .
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Shattered silverfish bodies in the vanity globes,they know me. How I hate my body, how it’s been abandoning me. How I look up to the light to notsee mirrored back the emptying cup of my jaw,—from “To a Wild Place,” Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the . . .
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Above the pitted black coast, at the house that looks accidentally built, the floodlights have been left on. The owner is not there. He only comes during the winter, when the waves rise and he can pick his way down the cliff to ride the surf off the reef, some two hundred . . .
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in 1980, my father saw my mother’s photo in a magazine, then left connecticut. road-tripped to meet her where she lived in arizona. who would stay in connecticut?—from “Qui Transtulit Sustinet,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Spring 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.How far back are we going? . . .
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The glass under her forearms was smudged with cloudy fingerprints. An ant wandered aimlessly across the counter, island-hopping from one oily smear to another. She watched as it shuffled, the quick movements of its legs and constant swivels of its antennae creating the impression of a creature lost and blind. Is it thinking? she . . .
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I studied flamenco for a few years when I was an undergraduate. I had signed up, hoping for an easy credit. On the first day, the teacher showed a class of sixty what kind of shoes we needed; the ones with the nails hammered into a small dome on the two-inch heel . . .
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Nowhere an Uber or LyftI wondered about fate and taxis counted seconds to minutes to years sinceI last looked at this watch Dirt, long since thrown upon graves and casketstheir resonant thuds quelled—from “I was hurried, not agitated,” from Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first . . .
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a: You are chopping onions for yet another pot of lentils, hips pressed up against the kitchen counter, when first you hear it. The sound of mewling. Barely audible. You put down your knife. b: One year earlier, on fellowship in Kansas, you are returning to your Airbnb from your walk. You . . .
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