Latest Writing
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SEPTEMBER INTERVIEW with LIZA HUDOCK
Addiction, death, and loss are everywhere in Liza Hudock’s debut collection, Reveille (released by Flood Editions in August), but they are not its actual subject. Instead, the poems wrestle—as near as it can be stated—with the world the speaker inhabits. Whether she turns her attention to a moth, the comparison between a pumpkin and a…
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SEPTEMBER INTERVIEW with Julia Thacker
Julia Thacker’s debut collection To Wildness was recently awarded the Anthony Hecht prize by Paul Muldoon. The book makes its way through the wilds of New England, grieving the family born and buried there. To Wildness is enamored with the world of sense, yet lingers close to the realm of the dead. It is elegiac,…
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JUNE INTERVIEW WITH STEVEN ESPADA DAWSON
Late to the Search Party is the debut collection of Steven Espada Dawson, exploring the individual and precise depths papered over by common nouns like ‘grief’ and ‘family’. The elegiac collection delves into Dawson’s love and grief for his dying mother, the decades-long absence of his addict brother, and the absence of a father, with…
POETRY
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SELF-PORTRAIT AS IT SINKS IN by Kenton K. Yee
“65% of Americans believe they are above average in intelligence” – 2018 NIH article The throat aches, a cushion pinned by years of acute flounder bones. Remember, we’re all as accidental as nectar palms living off light the golden tuba woofs down during its daily glide across the blue cotton field of gulls and contrails.…
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TWO POEMS by Luisa A. Igloria
The Hummingbird Says We Can Fly into the Smallest Places to Heal This late in our lives, the sugar still drawsus to its source. This side of it, I look into the rainand my thoughts are always and to the end,of you. Can someone tell me what rain isbesides weeping? Precipitatemeans both the cause of…
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OPPOSITE OF HALLELUJAH by antmen pimentel mendoza
with a title from Jens Lekman I want to begin by telling you I was a child unnaturally obsessed with dying. But no—though God pulled the drum of my skin so taut, its song rendered my body foreign to itself, my fixationwas wholly natural. And though a seed always already has all it needs to bear fruit,…
FICTION
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ONCE, THERE WAS HOME, by Karla Hirsch
once, there was time, there were moments that made up your life, there were hours and minutes, a morning’s routine, the bitter coffee you brewed in the copper pot you had longer than you could remember, mixed the hot liquid with sugar and spices, let it fill you awake to prepare you to journey to…
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THE GATEWAY by Laura Wolf Benziker
Mina, in the passenger seat, was lulled by the vibration of the car. Her skull knocked against the tempered glass in a not-unpleasant way. Her eyelids sank and darkened, then flicked open every few minutes. She saw exotic colors: swaths of glowing terra cotta, deep violet shadows, a sky so blue she only half recognized…
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RUN by Katherine Vondy
There is a room at the end of my hallway. Its door is always shut. Shut, but not locked. Inside the room there is a girl. Fifteen, dirty-blond hair, thin. Most of the time she lies on the bed, headphones on, listening to something with lyrics, mouthing vaguely along. She holds a pen against the…
TRANSLATION
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INTERVIEW with Khairani Barokka
FWR: “To enter the indonesian language is a science fictional enterprise,” you write in the first section of amuk. Reading forward, you show readers how Indonesian tenses permit a simultaneity of temporal possibilities not included within the narrower scope of English; traveling through time or existing beyond the limits of time altogether. What does it…
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URGENT: NEWS OF THE DEATH OF HIBA ABU NADA by João Melo, trans. G. Holleran
Excuse my urgency, oh right-thinking beingsespecially you translucentand self-referential poets,but one of our sisters,the Palestinian poet Hiba Abu Nada,has just died in Gaza under the shrapnel of a benevolent bomb,sent by another God,different from the one she spoke withevery day. I hesitated to convey this fateful newsso hastily. Perhaps I should waitfor the leaden grey…
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FOUR POEMS by Olivia Elias, trans. Jérémy Victor Robert
Day 21, Words Are Too Poor, October 28, 2023 words are too poor but I have only themmy only wealthempty my hands & so great the sufferings here again I press my arms around my chesthere again I get into this old habit…
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