Scoundrel Time

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The Black Girl At Your Party

circa 1970s My plaits and ribbons brightened white spaces for a long time Fat immigrant ribbons in every Color held my Thick Jamaican hair American black girls didn’t wear fat ribbons They had beads that made music when they walked. I wanted dancing...

Rubinstein’s Chopin

This inch-thick, square box was familiar from my childhood: the sturdy, waxy cardboard, its paper cover glued onto the top of the album set like a fifth-grader’s découpage. I used to open these boxes like gifts, lifting off the lid to reveal the...

Deadline

At Camp Sumter, the infamous Confederate prison commonly known as Andersonville, there was a line of wood posts 19 feet inside the walls that the prisoners were not allowed to cross. It was called the deadline. I defrost the bright green soup made...

Fundraising for Planned Parenthood

I ski for them—the nurses and doctors who save women like me from back alley butchers and the ungainly pace of ignorance each slog uphill on skinny boards a penance for the grudge that grew along with the human in my belly,| who owes his life to a...

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Rubinstein’s Chopin

This inch-thick, square box was familiar from my childhood: the sturdy, waxy cardboard, its paper cover glued onto the top of the album set like a fifth-grader’s découpage. I used to open these boxes like gifts, lifting off the lid to reveal the...

Deadline

At Camp Sumter, the infamous Confederate prison commonly known as Andersonville, there was a line of wood posts 19 feet inside the walls that the prisoners were not allowed to cross. It was called the deadline. I defrost the bright green soup made...

Fundraising for Planned Parenthood

I ski for them—the nurses and doctors who save women like me from back alley butchers and the ungainly pace of ignorance each slog uphill on skinny boards a penance for the grudge that grew along with the human in my belly,| who owes his life to a...

Bright

One has a dog named Willow. One lives in San Diego now. One has a cat. One likes hummus.   One has trouble concentrating. One doesn’t get along with her mother. One says, You really see why you’re so fucked up when you move back in...

Three Poems by Jennifer Moxley

One of Everything If Po’ Lightnin’ still be Muse of mine, may he strum a few Orphic chords for my brother Robert, who is soon to be skipping town to avoid his creditors. The Sonoma sunlight, plumper of jammy grapes clutching dusty hillocks, sparer...

An Interview with Ethel Rohan

Ethel Rohan’s newest story collection, In the Event of Contact, is an examination of trauma and its aftermath, of loneliness and a failure to connect. Rohan is an Irish writer living in San Francisco. She is the author of four short story...