Nonfiction
Tennessee Williams
The best thing about "The Glass Menagerie" is its inner evidence of the answers you’ve found for yourself and are still finding. It’s this, more than the people who are galloping to see it, that can make you glow way down inside yourself . . . In a time full of the terrible failures of men, you have a right to your deep pride.
Fiction Online Feature
Alix Ohlin
Lewis Dark lost his wife in a fire. Less than a year later he was living with Vicky, who was divorced and had primary custody of three children, aged four, seven, and ten. People said—sometimes to his face—that she was taking advantage of him in his state of grief, that she was after his money.
Poetry
Mary Ruefle
I can really see Christ standing / in the glass kitchen, having a glass / of orange juice. But what he does / next I do not know. Does he say / the world is ugly and people are sad? / Is he fond of quoting Creation? / The view from the house is simple / and gorgeous, a long gold meadow / ending in a stand of birches. Beyond that is anybody’s guess.
Interview
Sewanee Review
My habits are a mess, everything is a mess, until a certain moment—usually related to a deadline—when a shape starts to form in the middle of it all, like that one nasty coffee cup on your desk that finally starts to host some spores. You know what I mean? Something has quickened. The mold, in this case, is an electronic text document.
Fiction
Celia Bell
When I wake up, the light in the apartment is that opaque milk-blue that looks like it ought to be something you can touch. The sun’s rays catch flecks of airborne dust and hold them suspended. I watch as they inch across the floor toward my mattress. My body is heavy. I imagine my limbs weighted down into my bed, leaving an impression in the floor.
Nonfiction
Merritt Moseley
One might imagine that a book in which every character except the president is dead would be static, but in fact it is lively and moving and sometimes hilarious. The plot develops iin ways that ramify beyond the death of Lincoln’s son to some of the more important moments in American history. The dead learn something.
Nonfiction
Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse
Originally, we called the project Mosul Remembered, considering our efforts a eulogy. But on our first day there we saw: the city isn’t dead. Mosul lives. The people in these verbatim poems—Sheikh Abdul Razak, Haneen, Majid—are seeking a way forward: a pathway they must often build themselves with what little remains.
The Conglomerate
Jacqueline O'Connor
Revered for his sympathetic portrayal of society’s outcasts, Williams’s career might best be understood as he himself described it—a “prayer for the wild at heart kept in cages”—and the texts he left behind are another kind of devotional, demonstrating his faithful worship of the work itself.
Fiction
Alexander Slotnick
One ought not to have gone barefoot through Golden Gate Park, but it was done. Soon, to fuck was lethal; the gays were turning pure bone, and dead. Mack and Jean made rounds in their hospitals, came home under navy night skies, and tried, at first, to talk about the victims. But soon they just had to had to had to move on.
Nonfiction
Michael Dickman
Ruefle, like God, makes some pretty weird comments in her poems. Weird though, in the same way that photosynthesis is weird, or naked mole rats, or stars. This weirdness, or strangeness, or newness, makes for a kind of mystery, and gets us closer to the truth of our chaotic existence faster than anything I can think of.
Poetry
Rebecca Wolff
Oh and there’s Bill, his wife Kari, their son Hiro. Their huge dog. Old sweetheart, he fell in love with me, indelibly, painting pumpkins silver on the porch, October sunshaft. Stopping by with my long arm wrapped in Saran and a greasy bleeding etching of a snake, I unwrap it, don’t want to scare the boy, but he takes it in.
Poetry
Austen Leah Rosenfeld
At night, the windows in our house / become mirrors, as if to say // what happens here will keep on happening. // I press my face to the glass / and see / black trees, black sky, the moon like a pocket // turned inside out. // Below, I hear / a howl, which means our mother is dreaming / with her eyes open // again.
Craft Lecture
Maurice Manning
You draw the wire back and forth like a crosscut saw, cutting through the gasket all the way around until the windshield pops out. It took us a while to get the hang of this, but eventually we were sawing in rhythm and at a pretty good clip. As we zipped along the top of the windshield, Ernie called out, “Aw, boys, we’re shittin’ in tall cotton now!”
Archival Content Poetry
Richard Wilbur
I, in my chair, make shift to say / Some bright, discerning thing, and fail, / Proving once more the blindness of the male. / Annoyed, she stalks away * And then is back in half a minute, / Consulting, now, not me at all / But the long mirror, mirror on the wall.
Web Design and Development by Riverworks Marketing