Review, The Conglomerate
Spencer Hupp

Paige Ackerson-Kiely’s poetry plays with setting and situation, inverting the everyday with an uncommon, often unsettling ease. Her third, and newest collection, Dolefully, A Rampart Stands, manages some strange and arresting lines, accretions of imagery, and sharp language.

Nonfiction, Online Feature
Esmé Weijun Wang

We stood around the glassy pool at his apartment complex and his mother asked me what I was doing after graduation.

“I’m going to Yale,” I said.

She did a double take. “Good for you,” she said. Even back then my instability was clear to most.

“I went to Yale” is shorthand for I have schizoaffective disorder, but I’m not worthless.

Ishion Hutchinson



swift and pale down avenues, with the stark

outbreak of troops in the epic muslin, black


as dawn’s cinders, towards the true north

of your irises’ extinction, afire, to-torn flashes


of dark at wakes, where crude bounces

beyond any proof                                                                                                           

Jamil Jan Kochai

About a month before our Agha flew back to his old kaleh in Logar, he demanded that one of his three sons—preferably which ever one of us loved and respected him the most—buy him a metal detector. I tried to dissuade him, but Agha’s one of those OG Pakhtuns who’d argue with Allah over the nature of existence. 

Craft Lecture
Catherine Lacey

They must have seemed crazy—the first person to have done it. It must have seemed like a death wish, a sad madness, a suicide. I don’t mean the first person to decide to write a novel, but the first person to give themselves a vaccination.

Cate Lycurgus

I thought

            nothing of regular

chafing at this 

            body & nowhere 

it carried me

            counted; now, 

I count chipped

            discs of paint. 

Lily Meyer

The professor who taught On Being Human was new. First semester. He’d spent the past two years conducting interviews in El Salvador. Interviews on how to be human? He didn’t say.

Stephanie Danler

The first thing I lost was my desire to die. A refuge of mine since childhood, private and voluptuous, akin to eating cold leftover noodles with my fingers in the kitchen in the middle of the night. Decadent.

Cally Fiedorek

I live in the clouds, in a beautiful apartment made of glass, in New York City. My husband is a tall, wise, epically handsome, highly successful man. My good fortune humbles me. I get tired of the things I say to him, though, and how I say them. “Might go to the gym,” I say. “Might pick up some vino.”

Adam Kirsch

By the time they are half a century old, most books have ceased to be subjects of critical controversy. Their reputations are generally agreed upon: masterpiece or minor classic, obscurity or oblivion.

Heather McHugh

As long as five

mere senses of you can 


obscure a half 

a billion planets, I'll


be powerless.                                                                                                           

Jennifer Habel

. . . and then, through a window, Jane saw a fox.
Saw a fox and thought, Foxes are small.
The fox was a dash, a vanishing

Merritt Moseley

The Man Booker Prize, which started life as the Booker-McConnell Prize in 1969, celebrated its fiftieth year in 2018. Hardly the oldest British book prize (the Hawthornden and James Tait Black prizes both date from 1919), the Booker is nevertheless the most prestigious. It provides fifty-thousand-pounds and immediate celebrity to its winner; its deliberations are front-page news for months; and large sums are wagered on the outcome with Britain’s bookmakers.

Maurice Manning

Whereas Nature provides the seed that begets the tree that begets an infinite number of seeds over its lifetime, that beget forests of trees, that beget infinities of seeds, the metaphor we have in poetry is, well, metaphor, to plant in the ground of the poem and water with irony to yield the stinky, beautiful blossom of ambiguity.

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