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.”
It is an intimate coupling of female narrative in imperfect lines, a female mastery of storytelling through textile.
Is eight years old too young to feel and express open anger and scorn, even toward a person like Donald Trump?
I grew to love candies whose tactile experience was on par with their sweetness—in texture, but especially in residual effect: the burn of Fireballs, the pucker of Warheads, the numb of licorice.
The actress and filmmaker behind Waitress, who was murdered ten years ago, created as though she was on borrowed time and left a legacy that outlived her.
Sequestered in a museum basement amongst pungent human skulls by Bill Clinton's Secret Service detail, you can't help but consider the history decaying around you.