I don’t trap my dreams in books / you might as well store fire in paper
(translation)
Tag: art
But those who press the grapes now, / who toil from morning till night, / they’ve disowned us…
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He moved close enough to whiff my aftershave. Our eyes met before he grimaced.
(fiction)
The children / dance on open flame, scrawl shapes across the sky / you feel the ground vibrate as they raise hell / on all your futures.
(poetry)
He slices an opening in the side / of my breast and puts a needle inside / which flails around like a water hose he can’t control / in the yard
(poetry)
She loved her Oxy, Hydrocodone, and Xanax, the pretty colors and shapes. She sometimes poured them all into her hand. Did she think about it? Of course, some days. It would be so easy—a glass of water, her favorite videos.
(fiction)
He’s standing around and a girl in a red coat makes him think of me. Or a French bulldog, that I would run to pat. Or a scent makes him turn back.
(fiction)
…the promise of fulfillment rather than just a hole here or there or in several places at once…
(nonfiction)
I was certain all was lost, that the curtain had been lifted to expose Double Take Creative for what it truly was: a two-bit operation run by a misty-eyed has-been and his oblivious minion.
(fiction)
in silence, those dark minutes of recess when they stomp on my shadow with their hyena / laughter
(poetry)
Does literary fame play a role in your quest as a writer and if so, does it play a positive role, or a negative one?
(nonfiction)
Do you need to be a good person in order to be a great poet?
(nonfiction)
The flight attendant checked the row number printed on the overhead compartments, consulted her paper, then looked directly at Mia. “You are a doctor?”
(fiction)
The work is not going well. Why is the work not going well? I think. Wait. I ran out of medication.
(nonfiction)
This is when I realize that sunglasses weren’t invented to keep the sun out of your eyes.
(fiction)
She returned home when her village was liberated after six months of occupation. Her house greeted her with a collapsed wall.
(translations)
It was late in the evening and dark, the dark river with its lights passing by, reflections from the Seine travelling across the ceiling, sliding along the walls.
I have not / strayed far from the dead. I see their hip favored / executives and can pick them out from big / crowds
That day has never ended. / The fence he built is still new.
The latest piece in our DEBUT section, which showcases the first literary work published by a writer, beyond a campus-only magazine
“Sometimes I feel like a beetle. / Hanging on to a blade of grass / for dear life while what others describe / as a gentle breeze knocks the wind out of me.”
(poetry)
It’s theirs as much as mine, / this house, their great black wings / sweeping past windows as the day unfolds
(poetry)
After double shifts / waiting tables at the country club, / she soaks herself pruny, / floats on the water until the streetlights hum.
(poetry)
The historical cloth covers two forms / beating like the angels’ hard bodies in the midst of changing time.
(poetry)
Entangled one with another they watch us. / The good died too soon.
(translations)
O, old ocean! the river has mixed with your waters / where I so often bathed
In the weeks and months after the operation, he’d wake from sleep, sounds tooting up from his throat not so much snores as noisy requests for air.
(fiction)
Michelangelo said, / “I saw the angel in the marble / And carved until I set him free.”
(poetry)
Revolution / is the party we throw / at our unhappiness when we discover it / looks like tyranny
(poetry)
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