She became a lactation consultant, perhaps to help people like me, whose babies shrieked when breastfed as though the milk were poison, and then she became a Lamaze instructor, perhaps to help people like me, whose birth plans were ripped apart by malpositioned babies and maternal exhaustion.—from “What We Weren’t Expecting,” Volume . . .
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White wall. Poor connection. Bags under his eyes. Broad shoulders that stretch his T-shirt. Get a bigger T-shirt. Speak louder. Speak less. The swell of his bottom lip. The way he shortens my name. White wall. Brown bedpost. Handcuffs. Necktie. Fuck. Something. Something.—from “Spring Roll,” Volume 66, Issue 1 (Spring 2025) Tell . . .
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Duh sky was heavy wit smoke, wails& choppers whirrin’—searchlightstrained on civilians. Sounds of warclawed duh windows, tried to crawlunduh’ duh do’ways too, ’bout did’til yo granmama got to sangin’.—from “Grandpa’s Detroit #2 (The 1968 Riot),” Volume 66, Issue 1 (Spring 2025) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I still . . .
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Bertram Bracht’s luck changed for the better exactly twenty-four hours and ten minutes before the American immigration authorities boarded the good ship Betrüger to decide which passengers would be admitted to the United States and which sent back to their perilous homelands. His fortunes until then had been dismal, an endless series of fears . . .
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Whenever I feel like an outsiderlooking in, I draw a circle around myselfwith imaginary chalk & pretendI’m the center of the universe.—from “Can America’s Democracy Be Saved?,” Volume 66, Issue 1 (Spring 2025) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote. I wrote what I consider one of my first real . . .
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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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