“Corporal Belknap’s eyes were gone, white cotton: he must have drunk twenty beers himself. Which explained why he was leaning against the Humvee like a bike without a kickstand, why Sullivan couldn’t deceipher his latest slurred monologue—a single word he kept repeating, something like hurt, or heart, or was it help? – From “Gasoline,” Summer 2019 . . .
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The narrator of Call Me Zebra (CMZ) sees herself as part of what she calls the 0.1%, a tiny fraction of the population that engages with the world through literature. Would you say that this 0.1% is a privileged group?It depends on who is answering the question. Zebra, Oloomi the writer—or me, the other . . .
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“On the morning of Saturday, June 15, 2013, my brother Sam sent me a link to an AP wire service story. The headline said, “Rangers Rescue Hiker Hit by Fallen Tree in Smokies,” and the hiker was identified as “Nathan Lipsom.” They’d misspelled our last name, but it was close enough that . . .
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“As I write this, my daughter Moriah is running in a circle behind me. She is five. We are in our basement, which is where I go when I want to be alone and get to work. Moriah is running because she wants our cat to chase her. The cat is not . . .
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“What they said was, where there is contactthings rapidly change: circular reshuffling of hot rises,cold sinks. On a sea, we would call it weather.Here, before the drop & itself rush intoeach other, it pressures aloft, a straining escapefrom itself, a moment at peace” —From “Drop Coalescence ” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) . . .
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“your feet knowing sand at their arches: the heave the give and grit the quietwaves of a chalky blue lake the heavy slidedown a small pebble bankslide like but stopthis world is not a metaphor for you in me”—From “Lake Michigan,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the . . .
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“Stars crept through bedroom windows to feed the dark.Everybody became a friend that died.Blitzed desire tiptoed in from all directions.Wintered, feverish roses bloomed on yellowed sheets.Not me, thinking back as far as I could– who did I touch? How many sheets spilled over my bed…” —From “Better Angels II,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, . . .
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“But I do wishwe had found the courage to usethose purpled hours and put themto work: defy decorum and undress.peel off, disrobe, strip down to the verybones if necessary.” —From “On the Overnight Train” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I wrote poems in . . .
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I found a small white tangerine.It’s in my head, squeezedBetween what I perceive and whatI call things. —From “Every Thought Is Citric” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The poem that comes to mind is G.R.I.D (gay-related immune deficiency). In the first years of the epidemic, this . . .
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“I wouldn’t be in this cult if it weren’t for Bob Dylan. It was forbidden to call The Tribes a cult, but occasionally, hovering over tired feet and yanking at the seat of her pantaloons, my mother would mutter the words under her breath while folding laundry or stirring a large pot . . .
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