“We pored over several more boxes, then I followed her into a windowless chilled room lined with open metal trays that pulled out of the wall, like trays at a bakery. Instead of pastries, the trays held dozens of ‘skins’—birds preserved for study, their soft organs removed. To say that my spirit . . .
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After the third biteAdam found himself suspendedbetween two cities and understood them to be parchedby the contagion of time. . . —from “Cosmogeny of Shame,” by Filippo Naitana, translated from Italian by Ann Lauinger (Fall 2017, Vol. 58, Issue 3) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.The first thing I . . .
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Dopo il terzo morsoAdamo si trovò sospesofra due città, e le seppe arsedal contagio del tempo. . . . —from “Cosmogonia del pudore,” Fall 2017 (Volume 58, Issue 3) What writer(s) or works have influenced the way you write now?Because this is my first published poem, I’ll simply blush and mention some . . .
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“Egress: how does it work with the Virgin? Can we ask her for anything? Must we be on our knees? What must we say and how many times? For how much time must we stay? Should we look at her directly? Does it not work if we ask before we thank? Does . . .
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“Dawn ices the sky and drives back the stars. It took the entire night to complete his ascension: moving gear onto the platform—sleeping bag, ropes and harness, water, a little food, the brush and paint cans—using the torch to cut free the billboard’s decrepit ladder as he climbed, leaving the seventy-foot column . . .
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“I have a persistent fear of being a strange person in a normal world. I know this fear is not uncommon. The world—and I along with it—hopes to be normal, someday. Sometimes, though, it is better not to hope for this. The world has a long history of being strange and surprising, . . .
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1. The world is the sum of facts and birds. 2. Every proposition has form (or syntax: the profile of a Siberian goldfinch) and content (or semantics: the belly of a Siberian goldfinch). 2.1. The contents of a glass of milk, which could be a human body transmitting songs about birds, are . . .
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An orphanstands in the sky. An orphan with a huge headis nailed to the boundless sky in light-blue ink like a Jesuswithout grief on his face, . . . —from “Night of the Full Moon,” by Shen Haobo, translated from Chinese by Liang Yujing (Fall 2017) Tell us about one of the . . .
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A wine crate for a nightstand, and on it, a rosegone bad in a cup. Its water a swallow of shadow, murk of rotand sugar. Clothes sloughed, bodiless, and half- eaten on a plate,a plum in its juice. . . .—from “Still Life with Hemorrhage,” Fall 2017 (Vol. 58, Issue 3) Tell . . .
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First, it will feel like surprise. Like the edge of somethingunconsidered: a glass let go; an open palm;how cold a mouth can be and still say love,still say okay. —from “Love & Hypothermia,” in Summer 2017 (Vol. 58, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem I wrote . . .
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