The tarthky was a beast from a different era, from back when the dunes were just a thin sheet spread over a second sea, the clumps of dune grasses bobbing like Lilliputian schooners. An adventurer with the right equipment could pierce the sand, dive through the floating grasses, and swim beneath their . . .
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“Oren loves the supply closet. He loves to go in and close the door behind him, to breathe deep the Christmas scent of adhesive, to run his fingers over the open boxes of Onyx micro-tips, G-2 refill cylinders, and unsharpened No. 2 pencils. He loves to choose these things and, finally, to . . .
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“When you were in her womb, your motherused and sold herself, and after you were pulled out she didn’t stop. For a minute or moreyou did not breathe; and from the drugs she took (now in you) your skinny arms and legs shook. . .”—from “Bad Things” which appears in the Summer . . .
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“The alarming nonchalance of her gesticulation is fascinating. She’s in control, but more than this. She radiates. In her Jordache jeans and home-sewn camiseta, the white earbud wires of an MP3 player draped over her shoulder, she seems outside time looking in. This is serenity. The more he looked, the more radiant . . .
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Sharphurting like stakesor licking so sweet How will you take me?—from “Da morte. Odes mínimas,” which appears in the Summer 2016 issue (Volume 57, Issue 2). Tell us about one of the first pieces you’ve written.I started out by journaling, and then the entries turned into prose poems, even though I didn’t really realize . . .
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Clement mothers, Sweet Fathers: the Neanderthals laid their dead in graves and covered them with flowers. This is certain, in all the ways that we can approve certainty. It is also possible to think that they sang, wordlessly, and danced, strangely, while they wept. They were, it continues to be possible to . . .
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Even thirty-five years ago we cut the silhouette of widow mom and daughter. No one had to ask where the husband/father was; you knew that figure was formative but gone and not by desertion but by death, that we were alone everywhere we went and carried his loss on our back. It’s . . .
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The Stewardess was out of control. She was told when to speak, what to say, what to wear, when to change it, how to stand, where to sit, and how to serve. But she decided whom to service. And she decided how. Four passengers: two men, two women. Always in the lavs, . . .
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She promises to call him later and takes off down the street on her rusting bicycle. Askander watches her until she fizzles into the mirage. Fifty kilometers north, the ground is green and irrigated well. On the western side of the river, the grasses are lively and soft compared to the gray . . .
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This is the first installment in a series of interviews with our contributors. “10 Questions” was created to give MR’s readers a closer look into the professional lives of those who populate our pages. When I write, I am singing my Armenian womanhood to whoever might listen. I am dancing a dance about . . .
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