I imagine a conversation between the two I’d just missed before the photo was taken, possibly right before one takes a sip, and the other takes a bite. The conversation might have been similar to one I’d had with my own mother, where I, as a teenager, asked questions expecting that—maybe this time—I would feel satisfied with her answers.
I needed an aperture to smoke out from the stressful life I have as a critical care physician. I needed an escape. There are places on earth that you are certainly called upon, and you can only visit by invitation. Konya is one of them. The city of Molana Rumi, the mystic Persian poet of …
In a deep, official voice, the announcer told the fans to exit the arena and promised, “You are all safe… We are all safe.” With that, the crowd emptied out; no more basketball.
In Kinnell’s work, hell and heaven often make some sort of appearance. Neither fare particularly well.
There’s a world for me to build. I have a chance to do something, even ever so slightly, different from that which is considered known. The outpost, the biological structure, the act of construction and capacity to destruct— worldbuilding, the invocation of something just to the left of the form, becomes an illusory practice.”
Katie Jo knew that Ima was not her actual mother because she didn’t hurt as much or soothe as much, but she was better than nothing because nothing was unbearable.
As [women water carriers] passed, almost like a ritual, the village men, especially younger ones, working in the nearby fields and farms would take a break from their work and line up on the sides of the road to watch them go by.
Maine’s governor, Janet Mills, later, due to the virus, designated the state as one of emergency. I immediately thought of where that person would go, if they’d remain on that bench in tumultuous rest, sleep. Where would the most vulnerable of us go? Would they persist in this pandemic, among this virus set to infect silently, to kill?
The recent trend of residents leaving a food-filled panier solidaire (solidarity basket) on street corners for Marseille’s many homeless reminds us of the ties that bind here.
The possibility of reading lurks at the back of my mind as an act of hubris, a selfish intellectual luxury, a scandalous disavowal of my domestic duties.
