Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
hanging from the Pit River bridge; he liked heights. It was not the hours huddled over drinks at the nearest bar. Nor was it the asbestos blankets that shrouded his lungs. And yet, his grin is easy, as if his days were blithe, fortune set. When he’d hoist me onto his shoulders, I leaned like a figurehead, charging the clouds. But he’s outlived the battery…
The door swings open slamming against the cement wall. Two guards stand at the opening. They do not cross the threshold; instead they peer in as if into the mouth of a cave. Perhaps they are revolted. It seems wise to be revolted by a cage. Come with us. The smaller one carries a baton. He swings it casually; a batter up to plate—or as…
Melanoplus spretus “Rocky Mountain locust” And they shall cover the face of the earth, that one cannot be able to see the earth . . . and shall eat every tree which groweth for you out of the field: And they shall fill thy houses and the houses of all thy servants . . . —Exodus 10:5–6 (KJV) Sun-shuttering abundance, a…
Kynna Lovin had the opportunity to interview Jay Ponteri about his new book, Someone Told Me, (Widow+Orphan House) a collection of essays that bridge the gaps between memoir, lyric essay, self-portraiture, and literary criticism. Via a shared Google Doc, the two discuss how this collection came to be born, how it found its body, and much more. Read Jay Ponteri’s essay, On Richard Linklater’s Boyhood…
I wish I could see the look on my face when I lied to Dad to get out of going to church. Or when my best childhood friend and I sat on swings in the neighborhood park the night before we began college at schools in different states. When my parents or siblings told me I cried too much. I wish I could see the…