Bill T. Jones (detail), 2008
B&W Polaroid Diptych mounted on aluminum,
Courtesy of the artist and Pace Gallery
For Jim Foley, October 18, 1972 - August 19, 2014,
a poem by Benjamin Balthaser
When I think of Jim I think of the low, humid desert
where the last veteran from Spain
talks to his hands about what he reads in the paper:
the monarch butterflies are dying. . . .
Blue Handed, a play by Ah@d Ha'@m
(Breaking the Silence
Testimony 41, Hebron)
A Play for 2 Voices
1, I'm thinking about hands
The hands that touch
The hands that soothe . . .
from Autisms, stories by Giacomo Sartori,
translated by Frederika Randall
My present publisher, when I telephone him, is silent
for a few seconds. Then, in a very loud voice, he says
he can’t hear me. PRONTO! PRONTO! I CAN’T HEAR!
he shouts, just like someone who hears very badly.
Then he hangs up. . . .
is becoming outdated, & sick too, & actually it’s a lie
I can only think of that, I can also think of my mother . . .
"I have only you in this world . . .,"
selected letters of Gabriela Mistral,
translated by Velma García-Gorena
This work is a translation of selected correspondence
between the Chilean poet and Nobel Laureate Gabriela
Mistral (born Lucila Godoy Alcayaga, 1889–1957) and
her companion and executor, the North American writer
Doris Dana. . . .
When We Were Boys, a story by Eric Severn
Some freak storm howled down from Canada, hammered
the spine of the Cascades, boomeranged west and ripped
across Puget Sound, dumping record snow that brought
Olympia,Washington, to a dead halt. . . .
Dancing Among Schoolchildren,
an essay by Catherine Gunther Kodat
We’d been at it all day, every day, for the past five days.
It was a summer intensive, after all; being pushed was
part of the deal.Still, we were grateful for the rest. . . .
But to Return Again to My Going Home,
a poem by Kay Cosgrove
MARY did the horse liver taste good? Like wild flesh like god in
your mouth? Now listen when you’re far enough from home
when you are no longer you, MARY, you can hardly bear to
think. You are so distracted by sorrow. MARY. . .