“She stole almost everything from me. First, Mom’s joy. Then, Grandma Bela’s tender attention. And, still, Julinho. She took away the best that I had, the adults’ trust and my innocence. She tore me from my nest. And this, one couldn’t forgive in a person, even if she is kind, generous, and . . .
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My son brings home a drawing from school my wife thinks lookslike four erect penises. I say they’re just very tall mushrooms.Daddy dick, mommy dick, son dick, daughter dick, insists my wife.She believes all boys see the world in terms of dicks. Half of meagrees. The bottom half. The top consents to . . .
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An Interview with Paula Bohince, winner of the 7th Annual Jules Chametzky Prize for Translation Krzysztof Rowiński: First of all, congratulations on winning the Jules Chametzky Translation Prize! Thank you for taking the time to talk about your work. Could you start by telling me about how you came to translation? Was it . . .
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The body she needs me now to cut her food and feed her,to bring the glass of sweet water, never sweeter, to her mouth,dry and shuttered. Now it unfurls itself as mouth, fish wetand bird ascendant to a higher branch, with the taste of peacheson its tongue, and for a moment she . . .
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“She empties the car onto the lawn: her gym clothes, an armful of toys, the baby seat her daughter outgrew long ago, and three bags of stuff for Goodwill. She crawls into the back, where she hasn’t been since college when her boyfriend accompanied her home for spring break. They’d snuck out . . .
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“Perhaps, academic criticism attacks the “feedback loop between critical theory and artistic practice” to unconsciously deflect attention from a fear common to literary critics: that the humanities have become a cerebral echo chamber in an institutional environment that privileges STEM fields, the corporate university, and its investment portfolios. This is the fear: . . .
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Who is that angel in Bernini’s whitemarble of St. Teresa? He’s so strange:her ecstatic communion is with God,not him, the winged sous chef who’ll tenderizeher flesh for the Master to come . . .—from “Sonnet with Ghost Writer and Syringe,” Winter 2017 (Vol. 58, Issue 4) Tell us about one of the . . .
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He asks me to buy him a drink, his face a mirror whose patina has erasedits reflection, features falling away like rust. I offer him my own, a drink whose nameI cannot remember but means dirt path in one of the dead languages I’ve studied.—from “The Day I Met the Hanged Man,” Winter . . .
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“I am curled into the barrel of the cannon, in the middle of the center ring on this hard-packed earth. Somewhere in the stands, my son Jonah is with his father, Kirk. And as I wait for my signal, for those two taps on the side of the barrel, I remember the . . .
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I had too much computer. And a bad case of quaint. Such as it was, time stood still and there I was with someone seemed half my age and less a quarter my hygiene. We walked to Emily Dickinson’s grave. We held hands; he said his fingers were empurpled from picking kale . . .
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