3 minutes reading time Assistant Managing Editor Bess Winter: As North Americans, when we think about current-day Crimea, our first, and perhaps only, association may be with war. In her haunting essay in Issue 21.1, “Gone Are the Blackberries, the Alycha, the Asters, and the Rusty Spigot,” Yekaterina Droog pays tribute to her grandfather’s lost …
I remember the summer after Chernobyl for its fertility and vibrant colors. Whether it was due to the high levels of radiation blown toward the Crimean Peninsula by the northern winds, as my family speculated later, or to my grandfather’s tireless efforts to turn a cleared patch of clay into a kitchen-garden, that year our …
Now you need not die again, but still I wish you were here—Katherine Anne Porter, Pale Horse, Pale Rider My nephew is writing a book, he says, about Martin Luther King, Jr. “Now why would you do that?” I asked him. “Pick a topic without so much competition. Who’s going to read your book?” Ask …
“Encountering Shepherd’s essay as a younger poet, I recall being eager to wrestle with the unspoken challenge asserted by this sharp, studied elder. How do I write the city?”
A carpet of moss exhales inside an abandoned temple. A lone figure scrapes grime from a row of faded headstones. He brings flowers to a sunken patch of grass—chrysanthemum, hyacinth, pink lily mid-bloom—& lights a white candle beside the bouquet. Pacing the soil above his love’s stripped bones, upon the damp ground he kneels. Summer …
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