As soon as the lamp was lit at six every evening and the chickens fluttered down from the cacao and jackfruit trees, Father would leave/ He wore shabby military fatigues, boots as large as my legs, and an antique amulet on which was inscribed an Angelus that only Father could read and . . .
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Dragi Nane, On this side of the pond, it’s Veteran’s Day, so I decided to write you a letter. Since we last talked, I’ve been planning to follow up, and since the main issue is surely not ours alone, I’ve decided to make it an open letter. Perhaps a few others might . . .
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(Children and teachers in the Village of Dong Loc, Vietnam, where there are memorials to children and road workers killed by American bombing. Photo by Doug Anderson.) Happy Veterans Day, brothers and sisters, especially those of wars that turned out to be unjustified and incompetently led. I speak from the Vietnam generation . . .
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First, in complete silence, the yellow wall in my room cracks, spreading its spiderweb threads as quickly and as slowly as is possible only in a dream. Chills are crawling down my spine; hot flashes throb into my head. This is panic, fear, terror—a preverbal, pre-Russian sensation that as yet has no . . .
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(The African American Cultural Center in Brunswick, Georgia. Photo by Bubba73) Editor’s Note: With this exploration of the tension between privilege and vulnerability, we renew our collaboration with the Five College Asian/Pacific/American Studies Program. In September 2020, a panel of local scholars responded to the current violence and racism in the US . . .
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I slept the sleep of the deadonce. Once, could not be wokenin time to do what it wasI had to do.Did not hear the ring of. Did not hearthe rap of. Was called. Was shaken. Rosegroggy, stumblingdown the hall, my mother saying, Lookat who has finally graced us with her presence. … —from . . .
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Severalancient skulls unearthed in Ethiopiawith butchery marks around the eye sockets and occipital bones It’s called “pot polishing”— A sign that bones have been boiled for reasons of cookery——from “Cannibalism,” Volume 62, Issue 3 (Fall 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.When I was about eight years old, . . .
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(Afghan boy with US soldier, photo by J. Malcolm Garcia) Some names have been changed for privacy After Kabul fell to the Taliban, I knew I could do little for my friends and colleagues, Hamid, Faiz, and Aman. Various NGOs and veterans’ groups organized Dunkirk-like efforts online to extract Afghans, and their . . .
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(Cover design by Deste Roosa; cover art by Judith Wolfe, detail from Dans la Lumière de Glace 1, from the series Hommage à Charlotte Delbo, 2013.) A Review of Ghislaine Dunant, Charlotte Delbo: A Life Reclaimed, translation and introduction by Kathryn Lachman (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 2021). The work . . .
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Outside my mother’s bedroom windowin the memory care unit, sparrowsand Carolina chickadees play hide-and-seekin holly bushes lit with winter’s red berries.—from “Stripes,” Volume 62, Issue 3 (Fall 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem I wrote was about standing by the pond at dawn watching a . . .
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