Ashley crouched before her pram, settling Jack into the seat and fixing his face. In the dim light of her home, it was difficult to judge the effect. Heavy shades were drawn on all the windows, and she sat under a single yellowed skylight that dripped light over the linoleum like water . . .
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rusty eyed orphaned tracks. somber, un-blinking house. what we keep calling a face, though never our own. wildly invasivedead things & when the train that nevercomes doesn’t come again, the wool we’ve gathered to stave off winter refuses to hold us together. basho said the cry of the cicada gives us no sign that presently we will . . .
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What does it mean to be a poet, another “Homer”going home? Trying to find one?Is it time to prepare?—from “Loose Strings,” Volume 65, Issue 4 (Winter 2024) What role does language play in resisting colonialism and precipitating and precipitating? How does your piece engage with this question?Language is the steppingstone to any . . .
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When sagebrush sprouts from rhizome, growingitself from itself, this pungent shrubhas a far fairer shot at survival—from “Artemisia Tridentata,” Volume 66, Issue 1 (Spring 2025) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I wrote a haiku about a hamburger in fourth grade that was read on the radio. I really . . .
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The woman who was once caught by the air raid siren while she was taking a bath was most afraid of dying like that—without her panties, naked, with wet hair and hairy legs; afraid that the first responders who would pull her from the rubble would see her white body with . . .
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My father died in a car accident in a blizzard when I was nine. The next winter, my mother took my brothers and I to the Baja, where we camped on the beach for a month or so. My fifth-grade teacher tasked me with keeping a journal while I was gone.
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This morning, something in my doubt dissolves.The footprint or the transparency of floors.The wells open up. Sometimes, the wells close again.The added materials haven’t allowed the decision anything.Footsteps must swell, take up bone. The wells must rise.—from Marissa Davis’ translation of Stéphanie Ferrat’s “Skyside” Volume 65, Issue 3 (Fall 2024) Tell us . . .
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There is an old joke I heard one winter,one popular among the farmersfrom Trøndelag to Nord-Norge: two deer run along the railroad.One says to the other, we have to get offthese tracks and into the forest.—from Michael Lee’s “Norway’s Iron Road,” Volume 65, Issue 2 (Summer 2024) Tell us about one of the . . .
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Russ Brings all the wrong books to my hospital room, which is tucked into a corner of the birthing center. How was he to know I’d already finished that novel? Back at our house, all my books flounder in inscrutable piles. I hadn’t arranged them to be legible to anyone else. Of . . .
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Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.My first translation project was poems and short stories by young Colombian writers for Historias de vida y muerte/ Stories of Life and Death. That writing came from workshops I taught in Cazucá, a slum south of Bogotá where many of the writers . . .
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