My girlfriend Hiroko’s grandmother was the first mochi death of the new millennium, and I knew that this was bad news. Spirits freed from their earthly bodies on New Year’s Day are immensely powerful—it’s winning the spirit lottery—and all debts must be reckoned immediately.
“Rabbit-in-the-Moon,” by Viet Dinh Read More »
When a man like Silvestre Revueltas goes back into the ground at last, there is a rumor, a wave’s voice and a cry that makes ready and makes known his departure.
“To Silvestre Revueltas of Mexico, In His Death,” by Pablo Neruda Read More »
I felt no fear, though my legs were thin, hardly bigger than the barrel of the gun, and my arms were strained. I felt no fear at the prospect of shooting this man, of watching his body crumple, then dragging the corpse inside, quickly so the heat didn’t escape from the house.
“The Bridesmaid,” by Bonnie Jo Campbell Read More »
And the girls are always smiling, their shoulders
encased in graduation black
or bared down to the peeled-back petals of the
prom dress
“Co-Ed Found,” by Sharon Olds Read More »
Everything the old woman said was true.
Then she suffered a heart attack and died in Ruth’s arms.
“Letter,” by Raymond Carver Read More »
“He wanted to get out of his head,” she said,
“so I told him to write about his mother’s nipples.”
“My Mother’s Nipples,” by Robert Hass Read More »
When she was nearly asleep, she heard voices far upstream, male voices, chanting, as if from the dawn of history. Deep, primeval. The Men were performing the rituals of manhood. But the little farts in the night were nearer and dearer.
“Limberlost,” by Ursula K. Le Guin Read More »
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.
“from MYRMECOLOGY,” by Rachel Harkai Read More »
In her clapboard house with hard-packed dirt floors.
In this place of ghostly waking, my grandmother
rises from dark slumber, already dressed, her hair
combed over each ear, held by minnow silver
“Alba for Donatila,” by Virgil Suárez Read More »
We never saw
such a beautiful house,
though it dipped toward the sea,
though it shook and creaked,
though it said to the rain: come in!
“On Losing a House,” by Mary Oliver Read More »
