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  Front cover:
  Ayana V Jackson
  He Who Is as if Death Were Not 2016
  Courtesy of the artist and Gallery MOMO,
     Johannesburg, RSA 

   THESE DAYS the streets of Rome fill with rubbish, more
   or less daily. At times its present makes one wonder
   whether the Eternal City even has a future.. . .

   Craft and Vision, a poem by Carl Phillips
   Though the casting of light can’t really be called—not at
   least believably—in any way a property of shipwreck
   once the wrecking’s done with, what harm’s left, now,
   in saying so? As for those who would argue otherwise
   let them. Always, if it’s wanted badly enough, there’s
   somewhere a findable veil just waiting to be lifted or pulled. . .

   How Have You Been, Sir?, essays by Krzysztof Kąkolewski,
     translated by Krzysztof Rowiński

   I did not choose Paraguay or Bolivia, those who escaped
   and hid in the jungle, or those who were still serving their
   sentences. I chose the ones who aren’t afraid of anything;
   those who managed to escape punishment forever. . .

   The Letter in the Suitcase, a story by Menekşe Toprak,
     with an introduction and translated by Yasemin Yildiz

   As I descend the narrow staircase, I suddenly sense the fear
   of the people who once fled to these confined, half-dark
   corridors amidst the deafening sound of sirens. But this
   sensation lasts only a moment. The sixty-year-old
   propaganda poster on the staircase wall, Shhh!—
   The Enemy Is Among Us,
irritates me, and my feelings
   change sides. . .

   No Overtime, an essay by J. Malcolm Garcia
I tell Rosa about a time when I was down on my luck as
   a freelance journalist. I wasn’t getting any work, my bank
   account all but depleted. Desperate, I took a job as a
   grounds worker at a Chicago country club. . .

   Still Life with Hemorrhage, a poem by Leila Chatti
   A wine crate for a nightstand, and on it, a rose
   gone bad in a cup. Its water

   a swallow of shadow, murk of rot
   and sugar. Clothes sloughed, bodiless, and half-

   eaten on a plate, . . .

   Marvelous Things Heard. On Finding Historical Radiance,
     an essay by Catherine Chin

   I have a persistent fear of being a strange person in a
   normal world. I know this fear is not uncommon. The
   world—and I along with it—hopes to be normal, someday.
   Sometimes, though, it is better not to hope for this. . . .

   Night of the Full Moon, a poem by Shen Haobo,
     translated by Liang Yujing

   An orphan
   stands in the sky.

   An orphan with a huge head
   is nailed to the boundless sky in light-blue ink

   like a Jesus
   without grief on his face, . . .

   Premiere Nights, a story by Teresa Solana,
     translated by Peter Bush

I detest Mozart. His music seriously gets on my nerves.
   Naturally I don’t like Verdi, Rossini, Handel, Monteverdi,
   Puccini or Bellini or Wagner. . . . In a nutshell, I can’t
   stand opera. Even though I undoubtedly belong to the
   select band of old-timers who have watched the most
   performances at the Liceu. . . .

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