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‘Any Orange Is Orange’

by Olivia Clare Friedman

Posted on by John McMurtrie

Since Happy started saving lives, he’s gotten superstitious. You learn quick—don’t call him up on his shift and ask, How’s the day going? Any calls? because then for sure the radio will start, and they’ll be racing over, lights and sirens, to a one-bedroom in Pelican Bluff on Cooper Candy Drive, which is all gravel

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THE AESTHETICS OF INSCRUTABILITY: ON ‘CY TWOMBLY: INSCRIPTIONS’

by Dean Rader

Posted on by John McMurtrie

I do not remember the first Cy Twombly painting I saw, but I think it might have been this: ​​​​​Cy Twombly, Orpheus, 1979 (Courtesy of Emanual Hoffmann Foundation, on permanent load to the Öffentliche Kunstsammlung Basel; photo: Kunstsammlung Basel, Martin P. Bühler)© Cy Twombly Foundation. I was in graduate school. It was the ’90s. I was more

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New poems: ‘Giant Dipper Chronic’ and ‘To See It’

by Cate Lycurgus

Posted on by John McMurtrie

“Giant Dipper Chronic” I’ve been on this coaster for decades. Car for two—but just one bar to lower—one, or none. Where I lock my heart in for the slow climb, waiting for what great heights. It trundles up the wooden scaffold, building the long pitch toward platinum surf, alternately to fog. In one, I hold

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No Heroes: On Cormac McCarthy, 1933-2023

by Don Waters

Posted on by John McMurtrie

I liked him early on, this author. I read him, and I kept reading, hungry for more. At nineteen, a student of college literature, bored of portraits of artists and odes, I discovered the author at a used bookshop. In little time, I took to him more than any writer on my syllabus. I admired

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Poetry Takes Bloom

by Tess Taylor

Posted on by John McMurtrie

In the late spring of 2020, when everything seemed a bit bleak, I received a phone call from my old friend Hannah Fries, a poet who’d known me when I was writing poems and working on a farm in the Berkshires. Hannah is now an editor at Storey Press, and she had a fascinating proposal for me: Would

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‘Gardeners’ World,’ or What I Did During the Plague

by Cynthia White

Posted on by John McMurtrie

“Gardeners’ World, or What I Did During the Plague” For that hour, only the earth of his garden. Dark and friable as chocolate cake, thronging with nematodes and fungi, more microbes in a spoon than humans on the planet. A fear-free hour. An hour without my trip-wired heart. Were you aware the peony, like the

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‘Moldova’

by Ruth Madievsky

Posted on by John McMurtrie

Sasha and I landed in Kishinev as the sun was rising and took a bus from the tarmac to our terminal. I hadn’t slept on either of the flights and felt the edges of reality ungluing. The bus was stuffed to the windows with blue-eyed children waving American coloring books, women in sweatsuits carrying knockoff

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A Conversation with Kathryn Ma

by John McMurtrie

Posted on by Zack Ravas

The title of Kathryn Ma’s new novel, The Chinese Groove, refers to one young man’s fanciful term for a silent understanding that he believes unites Chinese people across borders and throughout generations. This code, he is convinced, is what will guide him as he leaves behind a life of poverty in Yunnan Province and embarks

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The Y

by Bethany Ball

Posted on by Zack Ravas

Back then, Yale sat behind the front desk counter in the resident section of the Y and I sat beside him. Reggie worked maintenance and had the gray cast and steady hands of a true alcoholic. He was always on time and reliable. Robert was a resident and lived on the sixth floor. He had

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After Dark

by Rhoda Huffey

Posted on by Zack Ravas

When the pigeon first appeared in my front yard, I noticed because he didn’t fly off immediately. He walked over to the jade plant by my front porch and contemplated the leaves of the succulent. My mind was full of other things at that moment: what to wear to that evening, did a man named

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Obverse

by Yuri Herrera

Posted on by Zack Ravas

Translated by Lisa Dillman And that was why they decided to go off and explore the other side, on which, they hoped, there would be no watery cliffs or dragons awaiting them at the end. They traversed iotas and iotas. Deserts of iotas and dales of iotas and mountains of iotas. Millions of iotas. Until,

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Flat Map

by Yuri Herrera

Posted on by Zack Ravas

Translated by Lisa Dillman Perhaps they could have saved the lives of all those who died chasing the truth to the ends of the earth if they’d thought more about, say, the thickness of trees. But these people, like all people, felt compelled to see things with their own eyes, which would later be eaten

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