© Joanna Eldredge Morrissey In three interconnected plays, The Till Trilogy is an imagined, speculative exploration of the epic of Emmett Till and the birth the modern Civil Rights Movement, the events as seen from the perspective of the youth, himself, in his final days of life, as a specter during the . . .
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In the village we let the nail go deep into the foot until picking up tetanus likea surprise. We watch each other live, we turn to see every car that passes: it’swinter’s fierce dance as it wraps us in its cure for lethargy. I don’t know what it will take to be . . .
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No form of art can express a life quite like the novel. No art form charts the lives of individuals—encounters, challenges, and relationships—as successfully as the book-length work of fiction. Perhaps this is because of the amount of detail provided for characters and their situations, which allows us to truly experience as they do, but . . .
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Profile of a solitary man, in shirt sleeves, whose pose ofsharpening a blade suggests he is a knife grinder. Oftencalled The Spy, since he seems to be listening to some-thing attentively, it is thought to depict the man whodiscovered the Catiline conspiracy; at other times of dayhe appears to be Cincinnatus, at . . .
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Dancers from Emma Cianchi’s ArtGarageDanceCo. Front: Tonia Laterza, Gaia Mentaglia; Back: Maria Anzivino, Pearl May Hubert. Photo courtesy of Jacob’s Pillow. Editor’s note: As will be clear, the following conversation with the Massachusetts Review’s Executive Editor, Jim Hicks, and the co-editor of our “Mediterraneans” issue, Anna Botta, was conducted just hours before the première . . .
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As the sharpened sword beheads the two-headed serpent,I shun the crude laughter and gossip of the mortal world.Thousands of autumns of virtue and vice are buried in the yellow of the earth,Under the sunny . . .
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We always wanted to have a bar.We always wanted to have a music bar.We always wanted to have a music bar and call it “The 67”and fill it with album coversfrom that oh-so-glorious yearfor western pop music,call it “The 67” and put it on an enormous signnext to Warhol’s banana.—from Pablo Texón’s . . .
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Courtesy of Lena Baloch “hello” i say to my reflection.at the level of spittelau i see it. my reflection.recognize it, but not myself in it. these are days on which i believe i’ve forgotten how to walk. on the way back from heiligenstadt i put one foot in front of theother, but . . .
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Here, the bodies of children. They died at dusk.Instead of bread, fed stones from the sling.Kept from shelter until their bodies stiffened.The sun failed to keep them warm.And she, the greatest sun, could not love them,because of the stones, because of the serpent.—translated from Waldo Williams’ “The Dead Children,” Volume 65, Issue . . .
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Winter was standing behind him.It imitated his shadowAnd considered itself a tree.It was getting skinny.It felt cold.You’re like a wooden coat hanger prepared to move home.The hat and the four assembled seasonsWouldn’t follow you.They would remain in paper boxes, deepIn their sleep, dreamless and naked.The cat would stay to guard the home.—from . . .
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