On The Way To King Lear, We See A Motorcyclist Who Has Died,
or, rather, we see his shoes poking out
from beneath the yellow tarp someone—a police officer—
has hastily thrown over his body. Never never never
have I see such expressive shoes,
The Social Virtues Series
Recent Posts
Tangled Moose
A moose is not an elegant creature. Though powerful, those thick hindquarters, jug head, and humped back don’t arouse the same awe a mountain lion’s sleek muscles inspire. Moose legs, long and fine-boned as those of a racehorse, just look like matchsticks poking from a matchbox body. They don’t suggest freedom, or swift escape.
I Want to Dance Where the Children Play
He stood outside the fitness center and watched the women work out in gym suits and leotards that reminded him of sitcoms from the Seventies. There were many fitness centers in the city where he sometimes worked, but this was the one he stopped at. He watched the men,...
Review of The Hello Delay by Julie Choffel
Julie Choffel’s The Hello Delay reads very much like “a cautionary tale” for our current age, one that both warns against and seeks out the anxiety that comes with living in the year 2012.
On Fasting
G.C. Waldrep’s most recent collection, Your Father on the Train of Ghosts (BOA Editions, 2011), was a collaborative project with the poet John Gallaher.
The New Issue Is Here!
The Winter 2012 issue is here, with a special feature on Eileen Myles, the Neil Shepard Prize winners, and a whole mess of new poetry, fiction, and nonfiction.
Afterword
Jeffrey Harrison is the author of Incomplete Knowledge (2006), a runner-up for the Poets’ Prize; Feeding the Fire (2001); and The Singing Underneath (1988), chosen by James Merrill for the National Poetry Series.
Why Write? #13: Edward Mullany
I walk a lot. This city is the city I will remember as the one I was living in when I first began to notice the physical effects of aging. And yet I am more or less fit.
Review of Kind One by Laird Hunt
Slavery in the South seems like an exhausted subject, but Laird Hunt’s Kind One feels fresh.
Cartwheel
We played croquet in the yard, cartwheeling when we felt it. When her mom would call us in for lunch, we’d save the game for later, or the next day, or the next one. Her mother smoked those minted cigarettes . . .