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.
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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.”
She stops to look into her mother's face. It is smooth and blank as a stone. Nothing emerges; nothing shifts.
Runners were perfectly suited for 2020. You’re telling us we get to stay more than breathing distance away from any other people? What’s the catch?
I have no idea what history will make of 2020, but the only record I have kept of this cursed year are blurry photos of shrubs.
The point is to accept that our impulses cannot save us from impermanence, that change and failure and death are inevitable—that stillness, as much as movement, is divine.
The author of Bec & Call on the role of poet laureates, the political power of writing, and capturing a sense of place in her work.
In a move critics are describing as “a bit on the nose,” I start playing a game about being trapped eternally in hell.
The crow is seen as a harbinger of death, a carrier of messages, a wise and knowledgable bird with a connection beyond this spiritual plane.