I came to the writing of bestselling novelist Louise Erdrich for the first time as a twenty-five-year-old graduate student working towards her Masters of Arts in English. I read what most consider to be her masterwork, Love Medicine, for a course in Contemporary American Fiction, and I was at once…
When heat visibly wavers over our truck hood, we feel like puddles, our skin as thin as a frog’s. From the broom sage, the rattle of katydids ripples through us. I remember first feeling sound Subscribe to read the full text.
With chainsaw and sling-blade, we felled pines and hickory, zinged away brier and poke. Together we string our squarings. Dig in with auger, rock-bar, and shovel. Dig to embed Subscribe to read the full text.
She has pared her life to essentials. Heart failing, each breath taken seriously, walking is not mandatory except for brief trips out the kitchen door to pee in the snowy garden. Subscribe to read the full text.
The poet’s house was a trip I could not refuse. I knew you only through words, anxious to hear your lyrical wisdom about meter and muse the heart of a simple line, but something more humble surfaced the poetic journey. Subscribe to read the full text.
I found them the summer I was eight. The nest took up the entire space inside the grill. It was a deep crater— twigs and mud woven into the metal grates. In the center were two blue eggs. My mother told me they were robins’ eggs. Subscribe to read the…
She got slaps for watching the boys— slick, khakied, and home for leave— step off the bus, just in from Fort Benning. Mildred didn’t care. Subscribe to read the full text.
Across steel wastelands and graffiti faux life, abandonment on the low. Few lilies or fruit trees, but the sky hasn’t died over captivity in a cultural desert. Layers of years reappearing. Subscribe to read the full text.
New beasts in the blue full-lipped morning. Ground flower, star-glass, and a seemingly rocking pasture. Did she sleep? Subscribe to read the full text.
A man, a woman, a husband, a wife, both had been slaves of Cherokee planters, both of mixed descent, him more African, the dark of mourning bombazine, her more Cherokee, the gold of tafia rum, Subscribe to read the full text.