“Ten Dollar Bill,” by Robert Rorke (fiction, ’10)
A short story by Robert Rorke (fiction, ’10) appears in Amsterdam Quarterly:
Ten Dollar Bill
We came down to breakfast Sunday morning and found Himself slumped on the kitchen floor, back against the white enamelled oven door. His head was hanging down, dark hair hiding his right eye. Mom leaned against the sink, sipping a cup of coffee in her pink flannel nightgown, and looked down at him, as if trying to figure out how she was going to lift him—or if she was just going to leave him there.
He was conked-out. If you screamed in his ear, he wouldn’t have heard you. We’d found him passed out before, usually at the kitchen table, but never on the floor. [. . . continue reading here.]
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“The Day A Little Gloomy, Sky” by J.C. Todd (poetry, ’90)
A poem by J.C. Todd (poetry, ’90) appears in Cleaver Magazine:
THE DAY A LITTLE GLOOMY, SKY
by J. C. Todd
The day a little gloomy, sky
not exactly low but grackles
higher than they ought to be,
their oily, boat-wake tails
dragging worn-out clouds.
And that finch song, isn’t it garbled,
[. . . continue reading here.]
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“Ignorance” by Jennifer Ghivan (poetry, ’15)
A poem from Jennifer Ghivan (poetry, ’15) appears in The Cincinnati Review:
. . . continue reading here.
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“I’m Done Worrying About Barbed Wire and Borders” by A. Van Jordan (poetry, ’98)
Two poems from A. Van Jordan (poetry, ’98) appear in Waxwing:
I’m Done Worrying About Barbed Wire And Borders
… and what I hear on the radio or read in the paper,
after I tear my doo-rag off my head and enjoy
my morning coffee like most Americans I know.
.
I just want to start my day, imagining
all the people I see outside getting here for the first time,
trying to do their thing while I do mine.
But the news persists …
. . . continue reading here.
. . . read “Incidents From the Pool” here.
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Selections from Wilderness by Jayne Benjulian (poetry, ’13)
Selected poetry from Wilderness, by Jayne Benjulian (poetry, ’13), appears in Mudlark:
I Imagine Inoculation
A slight pricking of the skin and nothing
until bedtime when her arm was sore.
All next day she lay in bed,
drank tisane, something like tea
and broth, smelled like lemons.
Third day, no one knocked—
she walked in a park, far off
mountain called Louis
after the king, nurses in mist,
puddings of rice and plum,
. . . continue reading here.
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Emily Sinclair Reads, “Searching for the Duck Hole”
A podcast of Emily Sinclair reading her essay, “Searching for the Duck Hole,” in The Colorado Review.
Click here for the audio of the podcast.
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