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.”
Growing up with the goddess figure as part of my South Asian tradition means I have a complicated relationship with repurposing the term as a symbol of female empowerment.
As artists are pushed out by skyrocketing rent, the city's drag culture is threatened.
I’d been walking around in a literal haze, but deep down I thought buying contacts might be the faint victory I’d been seeking.
Practicing self-care by telling white people about themselves, calling in Black to life, delighting in Black art? That was Black as shit.
The spread of plagues is the beta version of “Congratulations, you played yourself.”
When you’re depressed, you learn all of the angles inside a half-empty apartment. You become a student of the ceiling.