Explore
Deathexpand_moreSonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?
Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?
Narrative Prize and Pushcart winner Anthony Marra reads “Chechnya.”
“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”
Betsy recoiled, understanding instinctively what was to come.
In the street waiting for a cab, Ann’s boyfriend entrusted me with the story.
Sitting on the edge, I leaned back and fell, wrist-deep, into the body of a deer.
Getting over being drunk makes you wonder why the hell you did that.
All that I’ve had, I’ve left propped up in a glass vase: cut stems at rest.
No salt tears, and a continent between her ashes and Father’s.
He drowned under a different name, a fake name chiseled in German.
I pass my hands over my eyes, mired by the miti-
gation of routine.
Love I know is the husk caught and throbbing under your gums.
A painter dies of a heart attack before finishing a portrait of Churchill.
The light from dead stars only exists in the minds of the living.
I yell at the boys: “What are you doing! Are you out of your minds?”
“Clean up this mess!” I tell the woman. “How can you live like this?”
They had come for him very early in the morning. It was still dark outside.
They lived on the street, their mom a prostitute and heroin addict.
Let us not forget the desuetude of nailed-shut carousels.
Puppets share wine. A dog dressed in a red gown growls.
Surrender me to shallows and the salt gallop of a rising surf.
Cold metal stands upon my brow; Spiders seek my heart.
We went. We did. We went to Dead Horse but couldn’t stay.
I seek these ghosts because they allow me to return home outside of time.
And jesse, the smart bombs do not recognize the babies.
Please look away from Mars dangling so angry in so much darkness.
I want to change the subject, but I can’t. I need to think about dying.
He got his wife off a German farmer, for whom he went to work one day.
Death pointed the gun in his socket and blew off some of his skull.
