Anyone who makes tasty food has to be a good person, because think of all the love that goes into cooking:salt and pepper, sprinkle a little extra cheese, and pop open a bottle of Syrah, or if we’re eating at my parents’ in Las Vegas,we’re drinking Tsingtao beer, my father’s favorite, and he adds more …
Rita came home from the war. The town was not as if she had never left. Some things had changed. The Taco Bell, for instance, was closed, but another had opened on the next street. The Church of the Passionate Blood, with its stained-glass Christ as slim and pale and sweet as a glowworm, had …
(From the series How to Celebrate National Days: Instructions for Enjoying Pseudoholidays) June 1, 2018 Think back to when you were a kid and you’d give the classroom globe a spin, stop it with your fingertip, and vow to move to whatever location you landed on. Recall how sometimes you’d hit the ocean and have …
In the Silk City, seventeen-year-old Jennie Bosschieter makes ribbons inside a factory. Men work the vats of the neighboring dye houses, coloring so many miles of silk thread that they could connect Paterson, New Jersey, to the Netherlands, the country where Jennie was born, thousands of times and still leave enough to spare for the …
As hollow as a gutted fish, a hole in the sand, a cistern cracked along the seam— There is no filling such emptiness. And yet— Stitch it shut. Pour and pour, if you wish. Wish and wish, but it’s wasted— Water carried to the garden in your cupped palms. Might as well seal an ember …
At a bar, a man says Love the hair, says it’sthe best hair, baby. I’m Republican but would totally go liberal for you.At a gas station, a man’s Damn girl, those titsknocks me into the pump and I, too, canbe machine. Shudder. Waiting for use. Tick. Queue.*When I was young, in our basement, where Africahung …
What was done was done in our names; we ourselves would never have done what was done to anyone. We wanted to be good, polite, obedient, fun, wanted only not to ever ask What have we done? And yet, in our names, what was done was done. See more poems from Issue 15.1 by …
I In the summer of 1955, at the tender age of fourteen, I ran away to sea. The vessel upon which I staked my escape was a fifty-two-foot yawl captained by an Episcopal bishop, Thomas Gulliver Mayhew, the descendant of missionaries, a wise and gentle man who was also, as is sometimes the case, a …
for Gary Snyder Come out the brake into the face of the hill—the full spill of sunglare hazes dust into air arcades & down -drift. A scattering of snap- dragons points up. Seven thousand feet, & cattle low in the field, steam things amidst a morning veil, a cloud liquefying upon their backs. This …
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