• Fiction, Online Feature
    Carrie R. Moore

    The orange globes, dimpled and striped pink. The green, a sharp tip. It took her a minute to recognize them, long as it had been since she’d seen such fruit.

    “Harper,” she said. “There’s peaches out there.”

    Media, Podcast

    In which Patricia Smith writes against silence.

    Fiction
    Maeve Barry

    When my school friends play, they pretend to be mothers. I pretend to be God.

    Nonfiction
    Jacky Grey

    I sat as still as I could muster on the ride to Dairy Queen. It felt like anything could topple this dream.

    Poetry
    Shannon Pratson

    I have been lonely in so many cities
    and now I am lonely in absence
    of the city

    Poetry
    Patricia Smith

    I know the ways that grief
    can gnaw to gouge you hollow—gluttonous
    and unashamed

    Nonfiction
    Joy Priest

    “What hurt you into poetry?” I once heard the southern poet Natasha Trethewey ask. Something must.

    Craft Lecture
    Caitlin Horrocks

    Trying to focus on something despite the pings of notifications or the mental buzzing of our own worries, through the physical demands of needy children or of our own bodies, seems to me a near-universal experience in our current age.

    Poetry
    Didi Jackson

    You wove a blanket of wool that covers me, the threads
    like worms. My grief is an empty womb as pink as quartz.
    Everything is wrong.

    Review
    Lorrie Moore

    Whereas the story of, say, the middle-class Rolling Stones, is probably fundamentally comedic—do we not see Mick Jagger with some regularity on Saturday Night Live?—that of the Beatles feels essentially tragic.

    Fiction
    Kanak Kapur

    “Watch the road, hero,” she said.

    He laughed but his eyes didn’t sway. They loved her bite, and I loved how swiftly Sai could make a rotten fruit out of any man.

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