The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
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The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
“Bird,” he cried, “I come on behalf of the emperor. Your voice is all anyone speaks of.”
The DeVos family believes “patriotism and politics are inseparable from Christianity.” I grew up in the same church as the education secretary: her flaws run deeper than religion.
“Snag Beach” would make a great name for an Indigenous dating site—swipe right to check attached genealogical records to see if your match is also your cousin.
Stupid lyrics are good for you. Bad lyrics are just bad.
Speaking with the author of 300 Arguments about crafting an experimental, lyrical form; treating writing as a game; and our shared affinity for Jenny Holzer.
Medical advances are turning once-fatal illnesses into manageable conditions, but what's life like for patients whose existences become a liminal space between not-quite-healthy and not-quite-sick?
When I hear the significance of the two words twisted by those too paralyzed with fear to understand their meaning, I think about all they encompass for my family and my friends.