Creative Nonfiction

Silent Song

In Camerota, where the locals dance salsa every night for all of summer in a club called The Cyclops, I step into the butter yellow church in the piazza and find the most sorrowful Madonna I’ve ever seen. She stands on the right side of the altar, her eyes red-rimmed,…

Geographies of Pluto

We do not know the geography of Pluto as intimately as those celestial bodies closer to Earth. Looking up, one eye closed, I could trace the Moon’s Mare Serenitatis with my pinky finger as if grazing the dark circles under a lover’s eyes. The lunar maria, plains of basalt astronomers…

Holler

I was walking to a friend’s house one evening along one of the few roads that jam here every Friday as people leave town, when a woman leaning out of a pickup truck stopped at the light and saw me and hollered, Where’s the closest bar or hotel? I turned…

Speaking of Lineage

Don’t mention the rest of us punched silent rivets in his cell walls, us proteins that rebar his brickface, that buttress his architecture now warm, now capable, now built of the junkyard dead. —Jaswinder Bolina It’s hard to wake in the morning to poverty and despair and not want to…