Category / Issue #29 November 2013

November, 2013 – featuring Andrei Codrescu, Fred D’Aguiar, Lydia Davis, Christopher Howell, Katia Kapovich, Dore Kiesselbach, Carol Moldaw, Meghan O’Rourke, John Skoyles, Brian Swann, Chase Twitchell, and Ghassan Zaqtan, trans. by Fady Joudah. Featured Selection by D. Nurkse.

A Bookstore in Hay-on-Wye

In a Tudor castle now a vast used bookstore in Hay-on-Wye I came upon a mid-19th century library of one William Terrence Wordling sold together by the estate and shelved alphabetically by a clerk, not yet sorted, truly seen or


Farther back than my grandmother (something strapped to me that I feel but cannot see) I turn into a dead end   so narrow, I must reverse with due care (no hard shoulder, grass verge, safety net). Grandmother’s floor-length dress

Two Stories and a Poem

  Lonely (Canned Ham) “Do you have a canned ham?” the thin little woman asks timidly in a shop on the day before Thanksgiving.     Two Drunks Drunk, she burned every part of their dinner.   Drunk, he did

Your Brother’s Face

You believe your brother will come down after the rains and rock with you through the twilight suicides of moths against the bulb hanging from the porch ceiling like an answer or a bald old man on fire with love.

Bailed Out

And once we climbed over the wire fence and skated with my daughter on the dark rink near the Charles Hotel, and the police rolled down their window and gave us a glance.   Another time I lifted in a


One minute he’s looking at you, full-size, in anguish, and the next he’s a stricken Harryhausen figurine. Someone with cooler blood would be wishing for a compendium of diseases but you’re pressed too personally into the event to separate symptoms

On the Way to the Acupuncturis…

In the wrong lane, the slow one— I do what I have to, to get out. It takes awhile, and the dynamics of the lanes shift. Shift again. Nineteen minutes to get there.   Cars pass me, but why do


Leaves in the eaves of the photograph’s blue sky, a sky not flat but arching and pretend-deep—I look up, it’s September and the tree in the backyard’s fading, soon enough it’ll be winter, embered, crisp-curled leaves all matrixed on the


                                     after Montale When he saw me coming from stickball swinging a broom handle, he’d call Killer from his chair on the stoop.


On my bed in late afternoon I am listening to the thrush with his song now down perfect if not pat, and a note drawn across a tractor a mile or more away, yes, here among scents of honeysuckle and

You, Reader, As I Imagine You

Why is it awkward to acknowledge each other’s presence here?   Who says we can’t meet in public, can’t stop and sit together on a bench and watch the dogs go by?   As a child, I looked for you

Two Poems

A Woman in Damascus That Year Her soul’s in my hand and she knows I’m there medicating speech   with the wool that clouds left behind on the roof of sleep   I climb a ladder of thirty collars endings


By way of introduction to this month’s collaborative “Featured Selection,” per usual, first a brief introductory interview  with the poet, followed by the work itself and some biographical material.      An Interview with D. Nurkse: “Early Anthropocene” and Other