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No More Magpies on My Windows: Four Poems

Liu Xia translated by Ming Di

At Night, By Myself                         —for Xiaobo life plays its bleak tunestedious, gloomydaylight without light a rice bowl drops on the floora ripple of soundpiercingour segregated hours a cat quietlypasses through the grass at nightits two green eyes glimmeringloneliness don't try to catchthe firefliesthe nightly ghoststhey're dancing outside our life i'm fruit of darknessanguisheddreaming…


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Wildflower

David E. Yee

And when there were no more to kill, I kicked the flowers, sent bursts of petals coursing through the air. My legs got tired—I wrapped fingers around stems, started ripping them up, choked them into a bouquet too big for my hands...

For Samuel Beckett

Jean-Philippe Toussaint trans. Edward Gauvin

In the early ’80s, I wrote Samuel Beckett a letter. I explained that I was trying to write, adding that he was probably often sought out by strangers,…

No More Magpies on My Windows: Four Poems

Liu Xia translated by Ming Di

At Night, By Myself                         —for Xiaobo life plays its bleak tunestedious, gloomydaylight without light a rice bowl drops on the floora…

Father's Day 2009

Alexander McElroy

He wasn’t a particularly good Dad (though we weren’t great kids, either, loud and ravenous, always asking for pizza or pocket change), but the holiday didn’t call for distinctions of merit.

From the Archives

Former Reunion

Katherine J. Lee

I thought letting him go quietly would be too much like letting myself get hustled off a cliff. He could kill me with those shrugs. Then there was screaming,…

Heavy Lyfting

Ben Austin-Docampo

It's easy in the sense that all you have to do is get in the car and fire up the app. It's hard in that it requires long, monotonous hours to be fruitful, and constant vigilance to stay safe. San Francisco is a tough city to drive.

The Progress

Geoffrey Nutter

This is where the wheel is broken at the cistern / and the weeds of dandelion rise to over six feet tall, / their star-shaped heads not yet in blossom.

Seasonal Without Spring: Summer

Andrés Cerpa

Was that season artery or vein? when the days stretched like Broadway, & the nights undid our shirts – the temperature so slight you could raise your arms in flight & feel nothing, the body as air. But there was also the need for hurt. And dusk: a ghost of a boy tempted to feel his weight, to put his palm to the depth, touch the pupil, the dead turbine of god’s one good cataracted eye.

From the Blog

Strategies of Art Making

A friend in England asked me just recently whether I thought her work had become too much like 'the last cry of a dinosaur.' I thought not, but it made…

I Hate a Rainy Night

Thursday, August 24, 2017 Hurricane preparation begins with a conversation about a small claims court case involving a batch of botched edible underwear.…