In the end days, eyesturn around, softened mouth like fog on the window. The first tongue to catch the new language is a rotten egg—from “Salt for the Stain,” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.At first, my poems were basically a . . .
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a friend and i talk rainforest infernos,how she’d had hopefor that failed carbon schemethat i’d always known to becore of ash, not white hope—from “prayer for baby breath,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.In the ‘90s (perhaps you, too, are transported by . . .
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‘Ałk áą́’i’, long ago.Bąą, on account of, before our people emerged to the fourth world, Nihalgai, Glittering world.Chahałheeł, darkness, happened, and we would adapt to newness, the light, ‘adinídíín.Ch’ah and the western wear—the urban Indian cowboy, and for some, ranching became routine and we honored the animals since we emerged with them. Now . . .
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This is the story of when I stopped trusting people. I’m seventeen, living the life. Work all day, drink all night, never worrying about bills or tomorrow. The songs I was listening to were my script. We’ve all been there; I don’t need to go into it. What happened, though, was that . . .
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Hosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey yaHosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey yaHosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey yaHosteen dibé bitsą́ą́’ yiyą́ą́—hey ya—from “Sonnet 1,” Volume 61, Issue 4 (Winter 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I took a creative writing class in high school. I wrote a poem about my father. It was . . .
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On December 17, 2019, Lou Reed suspended his wild walk with death long enough to show me the cover art for the vinyl version of the extended single he had just recorded, a seventeen-minute-and-twenty-nine-secon rager called “Koy A’hoga.” The only image I have from this dream is the cover with Lou’s thumb . . .
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I dreamed my mother called my name in a voice that ached with longing. I dreamed the acrid smoke of a fire stung my eyes, blurred the edges of the woman who held a deer antler with both hands as she pulled on a smoldering block of damp wood. The flames were . . .
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Mouth full of raven’s bones, eyes black beaks, on our exhausted bellieswe umbilicus to Earth. .54 mm bullets light up our backs, exit our bellies Pre-K: St. Michaels, AZ. Nuns, black scapular and white cowl, shuntmilk-blood prayers down constricted throats; gurgling cramped bellies.—from “Ghazal VI,” Volume 61, Issue 4 Tell us about . . .
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The ilium represents the pelvis of a female. If the remains are one individual, it appears that she was a female, and DNA testing indicates Native American ancestry. However, given the limited data for various tribes of the area, and the custom of intermarriage that results from a taboo against cousin marriage, . . .
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They drink like frat boys on spring break, like frat boys on game day. They drink like frat boys in the movies. But they are not frat boys, not yet, and it’s a Monday night three weeks into their first semester. Each drink builds unity, helps them forget the hazing at dinner. . . .
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