May 2019
His Sculpture
O to just wash it clean, white as the shelf it sits on, that thing he’d put up on a pedestal—a misshapen bicycle seat, swollen coffee bean.
Q. & A. with Mark Wagstaff
The Brooklyn-based writer, Third Prize winner in our Fall/Winter Fiction Contest, discusses his short story “Emmaus.”
Summer, 2016
Parkinson’s a bitch, my father said, shaking off the awkwardness of having his son hold him in bed to hold off the shaking.
On reading “7-Year-Old Girl Starves in U.S. Border Patrol Custody”
I heap my family’s plates as if that would feed her. But who can chew? Anyone can smell the whitethorn acacia.
The Foreigners
They came from a shtetl they swore didn’t deserve a name. The youngest kept finding stray stones in their pockets.
A Strong Premonition of Death Struck Me This Morning
Some days, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t shake that sense of impending doom.
Donald Trump’s Toe Tag
Donald Trump's toe tag will be the most glorious toe tag. It will have class like you've never seen before.
What an embarrassment, what kind of grace
Thanking the tall maple over on Sea Street, it was or it wasn’t me hearing waves crash in the high branches.
Funeral Practices of the Flooded Valley
The long double row of skulls adorning the curved wooden bulkhead walls reminds us that in the midst of death we are in life.
Film Studies
I am pushing this bicycle twined with ribbons & flags & enormous bells through the elaborate marble lobby to the bar.
