I come to claim the white boy who yesterday slaughtered nine Black worshippers at prayer. Because to deny him is to deny theways he and I are the same, deny the hideous lineage that dogsus and feeds us. Gavel and spit. Rope and bumper and chain. Iclaim him but will not say his . . .
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“The customer comes in alone. The owner is a bit slow-witted and asks, “How many in your party tonight?” This is a family-style barbecue restaurant, though, so you can’t say she’s that slow-witted. Two servings of pork belly, a bowl of rice, a bottle of soju. Nothing too unusual, but for a . . .
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While we compare sex stories,flaunt lines crossed — a married man — a loading dock — a stripper in the state that pays its strippers best — the fireflies do their thing,blinking neon hearts . . . —from “The United States: An Introduction,” Winter 2017 (Vol. 58, Issue 4) Tell us about one . . .
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Imagine that you’re an insatiable reader—poetry, fiction, philosophy, plays, history, noir, CNF, DIY, cookbooks, travelogues, comic books, blogs, clickbait, scrolling ad infinitum. Reading for you is no mere habit and, on some level, not even a proper activity, but a kind of experiential osmosis that positions language as primary and generative in . . .
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Near the end, Ceausescu would only drink juice through a straw.Twice, he was convinced that his hearing had improved: oncewhen he heard the sound of a distant train of his youth;another time when his long-dead mother sang , , ,—from “The Purity Instinct,” Winter 2017 (Vol. 58, Issue 4) Tell us about one . . .
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A portfolio of Tracey Physioc Brockett’s “Daily Tangles” series can be seen here or in our Winter 2017 issue, Vol. 58, Issue 4. Tell us about one of the first pieces you created.I have been painting and drawing my whole life, though I was banned from finger-painting in kindergarten, because it was all I wanted to . . .
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On the night of his execution, Bartolomeo Vanzetti, immigrantfrom Italia, fishmonger, anarchist, shook the hand of Warden Hendryand thanked him for everything. I wish to forgive some people for whatthey are now doing to me, said Vanzetti, blindfolded, strapped downto the chair that would shoot two thousand volts through his body.—from . . .
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“I wouldn’t tell any of the guys this, they’d never let me live it down if they knew, but I threw up in the bushes after seeing what they did to that girl in the basement. That’s like a real pussy thing to do, right?”—from “Players,” in Winter 2017 (Volume 58, Issue . . .
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It’s not indispensable, poet, that you write it.Your elegy.You won’t help her die by doing so.You won’t bury her more.If anything you’ll unearth her. A footamong clods of humus in the Wax Museum. —from “To the Nicaraguan Poet Francisco Valle, Exhorting Him to Not Write His Corresponding Elegy to Alejandra Pizarnik,” by Carlos . . .
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“I secure my head scarf and get out of the car. My driver, Latif, is with me; women don’t drive here. Months ago, when Latif met me at the airport, I told him I came to Kabul to teach English. His eyes brightened and his eyebrows lifted, ‘Ah, my granddaughter wants to . . .
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