This is a story of a mole. It was about the size of a pea, light aubergine in color. He still remembers how it felt under his fingers: how it stood, pert and taut, when pressed down; yet how pliantly it leaned over when caressed sideways. A little oddity he would always . . .
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Lovely as milk, smooth as a knell,bodiless and meade of breaths,a blue bed of pollen, lace, mesh, the sea ranlike a prayered tongue, the waves—from “The City Opposite Nineveh,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.When I was younger we moved around India . . .
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Happiness: a wind through a blight of poppies. It takes a long time to unlatch something like that. To open up a parenthesisthat looks like a burningred poppy.—from “[Longing],” Volume 62, No. 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first poem I wrote in what felt . . .
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annunciation is what we call the day when Mary conceived a son blue has been known to belong to the gods even though it bespangles both men and death and cloaked in it Mary was told she’d be blessed at least among women—from “Blue,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us . . .
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Trust your move, Galileo, in the warringstarry fields. The bone I own.—from “Galileo Stumbles Once & a Planet Suddenly Skews,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I wrote a poem about mud in fifth grade that I was really proud of; it was . . .
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It looked like a regular day—all business as usual—but I knew that the world had come to an end. People went about their business as if nothing had happened. And I, too, did all the same things. I woke up in the same bed, went into the same shower, used the same . . .
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In the original, Adam has my back—is my back—our bodies onebody. We take turnswalking forward. With each seeinghalf the world, we see it—from “Creation Stories,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.As a kid who camped out in front of Teen Wolf whenever . . .
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Sitting next to me on the airplane is a man with a tattoo of a swastika.He is digging his thumbnail into an orange, dropping bits of skin ontothe carpet between our legs. Below the tattoo of the swastika is a tattooof a window with a view looking out onto a field with . . .
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Tell me, what does dusk doto Sydney Street, spent of allour afternoons, and I’ll teach youhow to say Novemberuntil it’s rent of moth and flame,its every last leaf a rhetorician,asking what is tether without float?—from “Leaving Chelsea”, Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you . . .
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. . .She was upright, lodged at one of the bigger brighter spas in the country,under her husband’s lover’s name. She was not in the pit, not in the silent, bottomless pool.And yet she was. Of course that was where she was.—from “Of the Mind,” Volume 62, Issue 2 (Summer 2021) Tell . . .
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