Art takes over. Paintings by Danielle Mckinney set the tone for an issue that puts the thinking self among canvases and books.
The Crossing
The Cooperage
To Never Have Risked Our Lives: A Portfolio of Central American and Mexican Diaspora Writing
A twisted part of the American dream is the idea that here in the U.S. you can erase your past and “start over.” Through this portfolio we can do the opposite: reclaim the past, reawaken memories, and connect with a new generation of people who are moving across borders.
From AGNI 103
Annunciation, Part III
Gun Stories
The Head of Goliath
“Poet-pig who knows me . . .”
Translation is not quite as old as language, but it’s as old as one language becoming two: we need translation only because we don’t speak, can’t speak, the same language: an obvious statement and an epic one.
Featured
Fuckery
A year or two ago
I drove my car
to one of the half-dozen
places I go and a spider
Memory of Translation
I still have my first book in English, A Picture Dictionary for Children by Garnette Watters and S. A. Courtis, given to me by Mrs. Woodward, a Block Parent volunteer who lived several blocks from our home on Norfolk Street. Though I wasn’t part of the program, Mrs. Woodward had approached me . . .
You Are Not the Choir—or, Seeing the Matrix
A couple of years ago I co-organized an AWP (Association for Writers and Writing Programs) Conference panel to discuss the bridges between literature and climate justice. During the Q&A portion of the panel, someone in the audience asked a valid question about whether writing . . .
“There Are Eyes Everywhere”: A Review of Oracle Smoke Machine
When I lived abroad at the end of my twenties, I luxuriated in feeling unseen. Across the ocean from the city I’d left, I could be anonymous. It thrilled me that no one in this new place knew . . .
A Cold Halo of Calm
Last night I went to bed earlier than usual. I’d avoided coffee all day so that sleep might come. Yet after half an hour of turning from side to side, the same unworthy temptation returned. To ingest something I knew would poison my soul—still, I could not restrain myself. My hand drifted back . . .
A Minibus of Volunteers
The mood: Titanic tickets burn against your chest,
and still you cannot help but sail.
Soon this land is going to sink as well.
The question is—who’s first?