Back in the mid-eighties, for those of us who studied the dark arts of ninja theory in the Parisian dojos of Derrida and Deleuze, S/Z by Roland Barthes was a seminal scripture. One of many keys it offered was its lesson that books don’t have to read from beginning to end—that, instead, . . .
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By naming her collection Civil Twilight, Cynthia Huntington situates us in a narrow interval—the few minutes when the sun hovers zero to six degrees below the horizon. Any higher and it’s daytime. One degree lower is twilight of a different kind. Concerned as it is with precision, however, Huntington’s title also creates . . .
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I. Evolution I dream of having wings. I fly in circlesabove the woods, out back beyondthe gate. My father raises a rifle at me,pulls the trigger. Shoots. Over & overhe misses, no matter how many times Icircle. The vacuum trailing each bullet, the wakes, & how my feathers fold into them. —from Jake Phillips’ “The . . .
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July 25 marks the day I first opened my eyes to life. This year I turned twenty years old — nearly two of which were lost to war. I am not someone who enjoys loud, crowded parties, but I do love to share my special moments with those I value most. For . . .
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1I have a lot of referencesmore than enough 2the reference is meand I’m proud of it 3I mirror me and lighten with painforming families of wordsbaby pictures and older little sisters the mirror is meit’s me my true selfand you deform us—from Catherine Theis’ translation of Jolanda Insana’s “I Said Nothing,” Volume . . .
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It’s 5:50 in the morning, just ten minutes before the university bus is supposed to arrive. I should be rushing to catch it and head to my classes in Gaza, just like I used to every day. But today, I’m trapped in a nightmare from which I can’t awake. The alarm ringing . . .
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A Review of Salt House by Hazel Hawthorne An early twentieth-century literary darling of the Outer Cape (and a descendent of Nathaniel Hawthorne), Hazel Hawthorne and her second husband, Morris S. Werner, spent many years living and working between New York and Provincetown. From the back cover of her 1934 novel Salt . . .
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The yellow seagrass was taller then. The dried stalks brushed my shoulders as I journeyed from the house to the beach. The journey was long, required wile. My mother twenty years younger watched me from the porch. She didn’t yet know what her life would be.—from Arro Mandell’s “Dream A Highway Back,” Volume 66, . . .
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To praise what knows only darkis to praise the seed before its soil-ceilingcanopies. The belly, too,moon that parallels the moon, tooth of a new bud thatcurls from its green casing.Quaint, too playful, word—from Michelle Lewis’ “Disaster Ode,” Volume 66, Issue 2 (Summer 2025) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.In my . . .
Read MoreFruit cannot dropthrough this thick air—H.D. Whether Celsius or Centigrade,It’s damned hot in these late summer days!Yet you’ll cool (even smile)When you drink dog days style.Here are beers that provide liquid shade. 1You’ll keep cool with this wintry White Beard,A translucent white ale to keep near.Beat the heat (and repeat)With this lemony . . .
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