
Friends, today in my head, desire is something else.
The flower of hope smells for me of another’s loyalty.
I have found another light in the morning breeze.
In the dawn of truthful appearances, the breeze is something else.
Friends, today in my head, desire is something else.
The flower of hope smells for me of another’s loyalty.
I have found another light in the morning breeze.
In the dawn of truthful appearances, the breeze is something else.
She does not exist
But to staff torment
She is vengeful earth
Unsleeping with foment,
Infernal glass eyes:
Looking about the shelves for books that are not there, you suggest a supplement to history. History’s queer enough already, isn’t it? Unreal. Lop-sided. You speculate, provide an example, and discover you’re spinning a romance. Speculation must always be romance,…
An experimental review of War, So Much War by Mercè Rodoreda Translated from the Catalan by Maruxa Relaño and Martha Tennent Open Letter Books, November 2015 The critic’s father had been dead a little more than four years. As…
I’m having a time. Love. Dolly Her Christian name being Dolores, her infant tongue could make nothing more explicit than Dodo. Dodo, she called herself, and then later, Dolly, and later still, there were other names. At home she was…
In this piece, Los Angeles-based company theatre dybbuk (www.theatredybbuk.org/), in collaboration with the Center for Jewish Culture, Leichtag Foundation, and the New School of Architecture and Design, creates a unique theatre/dance/architecture work, which aligns with the Festival of Sukkot and…
I look up at the godhead. The sand is white around my bare feet, a damp seal. There is no horizon. Where the sea should fall away into the distance, it curves up instead. A towering tidal wave so high…
There is a patch of clover in my back garden. If I stand in it at night, I can hear a crow calling my name. It calls my true name, not the name I answer to during the day. In…
for Jennifer Walkup apricity, n.: the warmth of the sun in winter Tejal peered out the window at Marseille. The day was gray, a rarity for the normally sunny city. Not the reassuring gray of an old sweater or…
i. In the jar the twins float, each the other’s anchor to a world they’ll never see. From one angle: a comforting embrace, heads curled to one another’s necks. From another: an assault, eyes screwed shut, gums hungry. ii. My…