One candle will suffice. The light somewhat subduedwill be better suited, will be more agreeableas Love is drawing closer, as its Shadows arrive. One candle will suffice. The room should not indulgein too much light tonight.—from “For them to arrive” by C.P. Cavafy, Translated by Alex de Voogt Tell us about one . . .
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First, we were taught how to spellHis name, then we were told to draw Him.It was an exercise in metaphor.The balls of paper amassed before mewhile my class mates drew stars, maps of the Holy Land.I thought I should color everything I could think of—from “G-d, a Portrait,” Volume 61, Issue 3 . . .
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The only architecturally modern building in Nyamata is the town church. Or at least it was. Ot still stands today, one story tall, made from bricks, with a high-ceilinged sanctuary in the middle. Back in its full glory the church was the centerpiece of Nyamata, a small village on a hill in . . .
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Abdullah was the first to forget her. Standing at the counter with a soda and a pack of wintergreen gum, she assumed that the shop owner—with whom she prided herself on having established a rapport; it made her feel like a local—was just having a bad day. “How’s everything going?” she asked . . .
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Hamid’s wife has been in the hospital for two days. At the Gynae ward of the Medical College. No indication for delivery yet. At times she feels a little pain—not so severe, though. If asked, the nurse says that the doctor will wait a day more, otherwiseshe’ll need an operation. Operation!—from”The Color . . .
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Greg was gone for nine months before he returned. The same amount of time it takes to grow a child, Jess would often say. What he went through was much more difficult than being pregnant, he would remind her, letting his voice catch on the last vowel. He did this often lately, . . .
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My friend the songstress says there is nopoint in writing nature poems anymore, notunless you choke the verses with smoke and oiland insecticides—the Anthropocenedemands a new syntax. These days,she says, the body is everythingit isn’t. The corpse is still a body, but so isthe rapper’s discography and the bicameral legislature—from “Anatomy,” Volume . . .
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Sir Patrick Steward read a Shakespeare sonnet-a-day on Twitter in order to get us through the Covid-19 pandemic. His gravelly yet elegant voice could turn the words in just the right way to make them clear to almost everyone, although sometimes he had to start over, because he tripped on the words. . . .
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I don’t believe in Judgement Day,but there are people who devoutly do.They bank on the dead rising like rehabilitated birds:parrots & finches, tanagers & herons—birds whose necks were broken and then restored.Or the dead rising like repaired robots.The thin pink-colored sugar waterin hummingbird feeders will re-inhabit veins.—from “Erasure,” Volume 61, Issue 2 . . .
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You hold my fists of lonelinessthat clench the clumsy weightof last ditch caresses. Beat intoyour vinyl sheen is the pain I lugto your altar to put the pain inmy hands:busted knuckle,bound wrist, sprained heart,—from “Alva and the Ode to a Punching Bag,” Volume 61, Issue 2 (Summer 2020) Tell us about one . . .
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