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He tells me how Mom’s rabbi tried to convince him that life has a purpose, but my brother wasn’t having it. Existence is a tapestry of chaos, he writes, that we impose meaning on to give our lives purpose.
By Brittany AckermanFebruary 2024It hasn’t happened yet: the awkward bloom / of my children’s bodies, the bathroom pin-lock / pushed in, the steady stream of marathon showers, / bolts of thick steam all shadowy blue.
By Jared HarélJanuary 2024He was ten and drove a team of mules / through the shadows in mine shafts, / pulling a wagonload of coal / that glinted in the carbide light / anchored to his cotton cap.
By Robert P. CookeJanuary 2024I know that what we call hate is sometimes love that was pushed under a rock, love deprived of light and water. “Tell me to what you pay attention,” writes the philosopher José Ortega y Gasset in his book Man and Crisis, “and I will tell you who you are.” How much love is putrefying inside boys this very moment, starved for nourishment?
By Nicole Graev LipsonJanuary 2024Shining shoes, spreading gossip, growing plants in prison
By Our ReadersJanuary 2024One cold November day / after the lambs were sold / and the wheat brought in, / my grandfather settled / himself at his desk / and punched the numbers / into an electromechanical / adding machine, the gears / whirring and cachunking, / a long white ribbon pooling / on the dusty linoleum
By Joe WilkinsNovember 2023My mother and I were alone the night / our house burned down. I was nine that summer, / and the smell of smoke clung to my clothes. / And after the fire a tree in the yard / grew crooked with scoliosis, its back bending / away from the remains of the house.
By Doug RamspeckNovember 2023Sneaking cartoons, escaping into a sitcom, watching the election results
By Our ReadersOctober 2023A coded diary, a box of letters, a closed bedroom door
By Our ReadersSeptember 2023Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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