Jennifer Acker's Blog, page 117
April 16, 2019
A Lifetime
Lara Moreno
Back at the hotel, tucked in bed, I couldn’t sleep. My state of mind was evident: memories, excitement, imagination. Imagination, especially. He wasn’t an open wound, not even a faded scar. But he was something so absolutely familiar and so disproportionately removed from my life that I was starting to crave the perfect addition to top off my trip.
Back at the hotel, tucked in bed, I couldn’t sleep. My state of mind was evident: memories, excitement, imagination. Imagination, especially. He wasn’t an open wound, not even a faded scar. But he was something so absolutely familiar and so disproportionately removed from my life that I was starting to crave the perfect addition to top off my trip.
April 15, 2019
We Shall Be a Country with No History
AATISH TASEER
It was black American writing, and the black American experience more generally, that first alerted me to the presence of history in America. It made the TV-prepared reality I inhabited less flat; it was my first intimation of something tragic and complex...
It was black American writing, and the black American experience more generally, that first alerted me to the presence of history in America. It made the TV-prepared reality I inhabited less flat; it was my first intimation of something tragic and complex...
The Spirit of the Place
ANTONIO ROMANI
I pressed my bike’s pedal, and immediately focused on navigating safely through the motorized fleet. In my new city, bicycles are merely tolerated, like dual citizens by the U.S. government. Drivers often don’t “see” them, and when they do, they mistrust them.
I pressed my bike’s pedal, and immediately focused on navigating safely through the motorized fleet. In my new city, bicycles are merely tolerated, like dual citizens by the U.S. government. Drivers often don’t “see” them, and when they do, they mistrust them.
Life (With Apologies to Chekhov)
DENISE DUHAMEL
In this story, the gun
doesn’t go off. The sun
melts the pistol into a vase,
the intact barrel becoming a lip
to hold flowers. The un-murdered
kiss, their clothes sliding
to the floor, their orgasms proof
of a feminine ending.
In this story, the gun
doesn’t go off. The sun
melts the pistol into a vase,
the intact barrel becoming a lip
to hold flowers. The un-murdered
kiss, their clothes sliding
to the floor, their orgasms proof
of a feminine ending.
Travels With Bill
MARIETTA PRITCHARD
For my parents—my father born in Budapest in 1895, my mother in Vienna in 1907—travel was an expression of their wish to see the world, but also of their status as cultured, leisured people, with enough disposable income to spend on nonnecessities.
For my parents—my father born in Budapest in 1895, my mother in Vienna in 1907—travel was an expression of their wish to see the world, but also of their status as cultured, leisured people, with enough disposable income to spend on nonnecessities.
Ends of the Earth & Edges of Dream
PIBULSAK LAKONPOL
The Eighth Month exhales a veil of gray smoke around the Pi Pan Nam Mountains. Without their leaves, teakwood trees stand naked beneath a blistering sun, while in the dry wind, the ashes of a distant grassfire drift. At night a crescent moon shines with a lonely yellow light.
The Eighth Month exhales a veil of gray smoke around the Pi Pan Nam Mountains. Without their leaves, teakwood trees stand naked beneath a blistering sun, while in the dry wind, the ashes of a distant grassfire drift. At night a crescent moon shines with a lonely yellow light.
Wild Oranges
ANGELA F. QIAN
I was settling down for a quiet afternoon at my usual café when the waitress asked me if I’d like to try their new marmalade. “It’s made from special wild oranges from Ehime,ˮ she explained. They were planning on officially introducing it next month.
I was settling down for a quiet afternoon at my usual café when the waitress asked me if I’d like to try their new marmalade. “It’s made from special wild oranges from Ehime,ˮ she explained. They were planning on officially introducing it next month.
About the Muses
CATHERINE STAPLES
Some say three, others nine. Varro claimed / one was born of water, another played daylight / like wind, invisible as the airs on Caliban’s isle. / A third made a home of the human voice singing. / Dear Hesiod, perhaps it wasn’t the Muses / you glimpsed on sodden farm fields
Some say three, others nine. Varro claimed / one was born of water, another played daylight / like wind, invisible as the airs on Caliban’s isle. / A third made a home of the human voice singing. / Dear Hesiod, perhaps it wasn’t the Muses / you glimpsed on sodden farm fields
What My Father Said
DIANA BABINEAU
You go where you belong, my father says to me, / ten years old, listening at bedtime to his story / about how he once was mugged in Brooklyn / in 1974, a small, polite Canadian / trying to buy gas and a Coke. Like here, he meant...
You go where you belong, my father says to me, / ten years old, listening at bedtime to his story / about how he once was mugged in Brooklyn / in 1974, a small, polite Canadian / trying to buy gas and a Coke. Like here, he meant...
The Life Domestic
STEVE KISTULENTZ
There can be nothing humble about a modern supplicant / if circumstance leaves him begging for a five-pound block / of cheese. Someone makes sandwiches of broken glass / and light mayo for the children of the divorced, who are us.
There can be nothing humble about a modern supplicant / if circumstance leaves him begging for a five-pound block / of cheese. Someone makes sandwiches of broken glass / and light mayo for the children of the divorced, who are us.
