I descended into the underworld again in my dream and there for the umpteenth time stood my father in a plaid button-down shirt and khakis a freshly lit pipe a wreath of smoke
I’m looking for poetry I can’t resist. Poetry that arrests me, reads me its riot act, signals my rights, detains me with its linguistic and thematic force (high volume or seductively subtle), and liberates me with a subtext of human...
Robin was looking for a familiar face—round, a squat nose, dark or silver hair—but she hadn’t quite expected to see her honest-to-god doppelgänger waving with both hands, accompanied by her 300-pound husband, both wearing satin Jets jackets...
At a glance, the story of a drilling crew in Antarctica might seem to have nothing in common with a profile of a trainer and her beloved pit bulls. Nor does an essay on the fate of sea snails seem to have anything in common with the memoir...
The summer of 1989, shortly after my second husband and I married, we buckled my two daughters, who were seven and three, into the rear seat of a used car purchased for cash. We told no one where we were going. We meant to disappear.
I spent my morning at the Dairy Queen with the loafers and the cattlemen who get their feeding done before first light. It was a sparse crowd—we didn’t know yet what the wind was going to do.
