Online Feature, Review
Stephanie Danler

Three Women—strictly speaking, a work of nonfiction, although it pushes the boundaries of the genre as Taddeo explores the inner lives of three individualsis going to be called a book about women and desire. That’s the beginning of it, but far from the end. Its subject is also sexual trauma, in its micro and macro forms, and how some women have tried to define themselves through sex.

The Conglomerate
Anna Caritj

Anna Burns’s Milkman is outwardly a novel about the Troubles in Northern Ireland. But this scene, in which the unnamed heroine stumbles across a cat’s head in the rubble of a bombed-out building, unites the political with the deeply personal. Here, we see an eighteen-year-old girl caught up in the building pressure of an ethno-nationalist conflict—a war—threatening to erupt at any moment. On impulse, she picks the head up.

Craft Lecture
Chris Bachelder

If plot can be conceptualized as a chain of causally linked events, the protagonist’s stop at the wrong house is not quite connected to plot. It is not properly a link in a chain of causation. You might say that this wrong stop caused him to be disturbed, but he was already disturbed, and in fact there is a sense that his uneasiness is as much a cause as an effect of turning into the stranger’s driveway. The story too is in a strange driveway, off its main road.

Poetry
Garrett Hongo

But a reflection on the glass shone through the transparency of years—
a frosted flame of thought that took me back through the inactive pages of my life—
and I was humbled to recall my own student time—twenty-three in Ann Arbor,
fresh from Japan and my monastery year—sitting with Robert Hayden in his garden.

Poetry
Paul Muldoon

Try telling a dramatist the sky’s the limit
when an eagle has let fall a tortoise onto his bare skull.
Now Aeschylus will expire
without the opportunity to develop his skill
in single combat
 
or master basic hero-feats.

Fiction
Shawn Vestal

Later that night, at the bonfire in the desert, we drink warmish beer from a keg and celebrate our victory. We talk about the good plays. We complain about Coach, who we love. We pair off with girls and try to guide them toward the outskirts of the fire, toward the back seats of cars, toward the dark, lonely night.

Fiction
Lea Carpenter

The beast followed them out to Long Island weekends and through Tribeca weekdays. The beast is when one of you launches a revolution from within and says, I’m done. The beast is the risk that one of you might call the bluff on this whole situation, this institution, those Verdura rings on your ring fingers.

Poetry
Olena Kalytiak Davis

today i walked my racism in a harness collar
through flatbush, through ditmas park
i called it buck, i told it to heel, heel, heal

Review
Lorrie Moore

Lorena's director, Joshua Rofé, who was ten years old at the time of the Bobbitt event, has spliced together new and old footage for the info-mad internet age, to create a meandering, circling story that is indeed part comedy, part horror, part politics.

Fiction
Celia Bell

“Damn your liver,” I grunt, through Lila’s throat. “Gerald, you were too good to attend my deathbed, I hope your syphilitic nose falls off. Marcus, Monica, did you think I wouldn’t see you fighting over the family silver when I died?”

Poetry
Armen Davoudian

Twenty pillars drip into the pool

their likenesses, where the likeness of a boy

wavers among the clouds, eyeing the boy

Fiction
Anna Caritj

To buy time, Nel took the rabbit into the bathroom. How much was the thing worth? she wondered. She knew O’s moms had heritage breeds, and that many were considered endangered. Or threatened, at least. Now, seeing the animal in better light, she determined that it had been white. Blue eyes. Ears oddly stiff and upright. It looked more like a duster than a once-living creature. 

Poetry
Graham Barnhart

The spotting tower rises
like a sundial in a plain
of punctured buses
we pretend are houses.
In an hour or so, a gunship
will come on station
circling. The crews
rise skyward in a reek
of gun oil they no longer smell
on themselves.

Nonfiction
Stephanie McCarter

A woman’s body is largely a cultural invention, given expression through words that mandate what that body must signify, even what parts it must possess. The language we use chisels and molds the female form, like sculpture.

The Conglomerate
Cate Lycurgus

An open interval has no end points, and this poem meditates on distances—celestial, relational, linguistic—pointing to the inevitable gap between what we say and mean. Since RR Lyrae—a star cluster in the Lyra constellation—pulses, it can be used to measure distances.

Web Design and Development by Riverworks Marketing