Online Feature
Leslie Jamison

The more time I spent researching, the more convinced I became that the only version of my project I believed in was one that also confessed what had motivated all this research: the drinking and the quitting; all that terror and hope. It would bring together personal narrative, and literary criticism, and biographical research, and cultural history, and it would somehow do all this without coming apart at the seams.

The Conglomerate
Tyree Daye

As a poet obsessed with death—the death of my ancestors and my own—I’m continually coming back to Nicole Sealey’s “The First Person Who Will Live to Be One Hundred and Fifty Years Old Has Already Been Born” for how the poem conjures questions about how we measure a human life and the human experience. Particularly, I enjoy how each line explores the space between “ourselves and oblivion,” which is how I think of our connections to the natural world. Oblivion is the natural world, and poets must give over our bodies to oblivion or death.

Fiction
Steven Millhauser

Is it possible to fall in love with a house, as you might with a person, if you are seventeen years old, a small-town boy waiting for the adventure of his life to begin? I felt as if I had opened a secret door and come to the center of things.

Poetry
Tyree Daye

I knew freedom

was not the act of flying
          but the steady beat of wings.

It was my steady black,
          blue and my blues were gone,

I wanted to be
          a bird and became.



Nonfiction
Molly Antopol

When he died, John had been publishing books consistently for more than fifty years. He wrote more than twenty of them, as well as dozens of individual stories and poems. Much of the work—like this story—revolved around questions of faith and guilt, and he imbued all of it with his characteristic self-deprecation, compassion, and humor.

Poetry
Douglas Kearney

            I’m fitful
when I’m sleeping. Wakeful,
a minute. My ears wet
when I get up. Like drowning,
            though I’ve never.
All my dreams Chevrolet heavy.
This land would swallow me
           for one damn pearl.

Poetry
Kathleen Ossip


Light: supreme optical clarity, quick-dry, scratch-resistant.
Clouds: feather-pregnant, groaning, insistent.

Exterior: A puzzle, one continuous Olde New Yorke alley.
I did not know you. You did not know me.

Review
Christian Lorentzen

It’s no accident that postwar American fiction and television don’t loom as the determining influences on his novels, as they did for Wallace and his cohort in a way that seemed inescapable at the time. Lerner’s lodestars are the poetry of Walt Whitman and John Ashbery, visual art, and the classic European novel.

Poetry
Karen Solie

And maybe a soul is a satellite,
a small idea orbiting a larger one, a device
to translate the signal
and send it back.

The rat is still a rat.
There is no getting around what we are.

Nonfiction
Lee Conell

I was getting too worried about all that noise around symbolism, around beauty, around birds. I needed to be silent in some different way with that scene. If the stupid emotional truths were really stupid, at least I’d try to hear them, to identify them more clearly.

Fiction
Lisa Taddeo

The waiter flirted with her with his eyes, the way many of the men who served them in the future would. It was as if they knew the rules of this game. The young girl with the older wealthy man. You are allowed to undo her top two buttons while spooning hollandaise onto her fish-warmed plate.

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