Art takes over. Paintings by Danielle Mckinney set the tone for an issue that puts the thinking self among canvases and books.
The Crossing
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
Submit to Proximity: An AGNI Portfolio of Writing and Art by Women of Color
AGNI has a history of assembling portfolios that bring attention to rich, often underappreciated categories of writing. Senior editor Shuchi Saraswat and guest editors Ru Freeman and Preti Taneja are coediting the latest of these—Proximity: An AGNI Portfolio of Writing and Art by Women of Color.
The Cooperage
I grew up on a small farm in West Townsend, Massachusetts, northeast of the Worcester Hills, at the border of southern New Hampshire. Its house and barns were built in 1800, and thirty years later, as the first stirrings of the Industrial Revolution whispered through, my family erected a cooperage there among the pastures and apple trees, a small clapboard outbuilding . . .
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 . . .
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?