“If countries were people, we wouldn’t invite them to our parties because they are too monstrous,” Robin Hemley tells Julia Lieblich.
Apparently to be a poet—dogmatic on the outside / and lacking conviction within / is a hell one can leave / but doesn’t.
(poetry)
Donald Ray Pollock’s Hillbilly Gothic peels back the sanitized “heartland” image of the Midwest, revealing the often-overlooked rural people. An interview by Jarrett Kaufman.
“Every book, like every child, stems from multiple ancestral lines. Fruitful books sprout new lines, branching into new familial territories,” writes Amy Hassinger.
(review)
I’ve socialized a couple times in the backyard. Masks on, masks off, nibble, nibble, sip, sip, masks on, masks off, sip, sip, nibble, nibble.
(nonfiction)
You’re going to call me racist with the name, Bianka? “White?” “Fair?”
“God’s Promise . . .”
(drama)
My friend was talking to her brother on Skype when a mouse–
(nonfiction)
I wanted to shout, but my tongue felt like the army slept on it. I wish I had a bittersweet Lick-M-Aid.
(fiction)
but the sea swoons / with delight in holy purity / but sand breaks the stone / that covers my face
(poetry)
Whilst searching through an unfamiliar room, / the guest against the bedstead sets abloom. / A blemished bruise that raise on his shank pain’s gloom.
(poetry)
