I had to take off, because I did not trust myself not to change my mind. I was fat and out of shape. Even at the best of times I had never been one for running, because I considered it an undignifying exercise. But this was not the time for preserving dignity. . . .
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Photo credit: Leslie Lausch In 2010, the second morning of the Year of the Pig is the day after Valentine’s. Hong Kong’s in a good mood. On ATV Home, Harmony News broadcasts a senior citizen activity organized by a Christian social welfare group. Its goal—to reproduce past times by displaying personal possessions . . .
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You might have a lover who builds you a castle,and in the field beyond the pond, a lapwing makes her nest. The long-legged mother, black and white, and beautifully agile,will pretend to have a broken wing to lure you around and away. “Lapwing” means “disguise the secret.”—From “Mythographic Shorthand,” Volume 60, Issue . . .
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We speak sparingly to ourselves indulging instead a devotional of listssoft tyranny of small needs abject and quotidian underneath whichthe broad sweep of desire our machinery grinds for poverty—from “Letter for Elena Ferrante: Devotional,” Volume 60, Issue 4 (Winter 2019) Tell us about one of the . . .
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A few times a week, Yiadom-Boakyepainstakingly cuts oil paintings she believesaren’t up to snuff. Instead of re-primingthe canvas, she reduces it to 2 X 2 ½-meterpieces. She begins again. This isn’tan ars poetica. Once, I made love in daylight.—from “Poem After an Iteration of a Painting by Lynette Yiadom-Boakye, Destroyed by the . . .
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How they get you is first they give you moreto do by rolling out two more machinesbut slowing down each loom to 100 beatsa minute to mitigate the impact of workingtwo looms at once and this is what they calledback then the stretch out and once they stretch you outonce you get . . .
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If Pappaw hadn’t been murdered, I wouldn’t even consider doing this test. Yet, here I am. Against my better judgment, I spit into the plastic tube then check to see if I’ve reached the fill line. Not even close. I suck the inside of my cheeks to produce more saliva and spit . . .
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liabilityassetsupposing brainssharpsurpassingeverything, anything—from “Liability,” Volume 60, Issue 4 (Winter 2019) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.Well, I could tell you, but I would have to kill you. Actually, when my mom came to live with my wife and me, more than thirty years since I had left my . . .
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my mother was never mistakenfor a junkshop trumpetor a yard sale saxophone, not even axylophone with its teeth knocked out,nor was she a late nighttone deaf lounge siren,but there was enough cacophonyand wild-ass mock jubilationcrueler than moneypouring out of the instrument of her throatto stun a family of bison,—from “Friday Night Fights,” . . .
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The first man Kalo ever loved was a hustler—a killer, too. In that way she was blessed. He taught her two things (more, but this is what she will share): all you got in this life is your balls and your word; play your hand close to your chest. The city Kalo . . .
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