Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
We bought a television, Gabe and I, a few days ago. It’s the first TV we’ve owned as a couple, a shocking and disturbing development. When we moved in together six months ago, it was under the assumption that we would never buy one. We considered ourselves above the people who spent an entire Sunday binging Netflix on their 70-inch plasma screens. Not that we…
Portland Review is now open for submissions in Poetry, Fiction, and Nonfiction. The window for submission will be open from September, 27th to October 20, 2023. We will close the submission for the genre if we reach our cap before the official closing date. At Portland Review, we are looking for submissions (stories, poems, genre hybrids) that are willing to push boundaries and subvert traditional…
Pearl— The first time I saw the heifer was the morning Clarke brought me back from Lexington in early June. She was out front, chewing on crabgrass around the porch. I thought, first, that must be unpleasant. Certain she was getting some of that milky gray gravel laid around the house between her teeth, my own jaw aching with every crunch. And oh, I could…
Reproductive Doctor Enclosed in each prescribing mouth is an eternal fire of authority. Patients must wear protective clothing and well-insulated masks against the sparks. It is difficult to fit inside the suit because the body is an ill-used paintbrush, her mural based on a series of small diurnal deaths. Am I already or am I not? we may ask each morning. Yes, I do hear…
You fly 4 hours to your mother’s province whereat lunch, your family listens to the chismis of the barrio while you speak to the itlog and the bagoong and last night’s rice,to the bangus on your plate that your mom debones for you,your fingers, too American to distinguish the bone from the meatthat you will dip in the sawsawan, communing at the center of your plate.Your hand-me-down tongue converses fluently with every note of sour,…