Casual Tea, Seattle Man
Casual Tea Last night I dreamed I was running across the craters of the Western Front. The enemy had retreated, and the doctor told me that a Body had died. “All are buried or home for tea, but a doctor works in between. The war is won, and I am done. And so It […]
Wisteria
Love never came and raved but bent low and whispered: spring wisteria that once dipped its neck to press its pretty face to yours. You bent too, to listen, and every building stooped to see your sunlit form find silence in the street. ∎ Words by James Turner. Art by Betsy McGrath.
Thursday Night
Thomas settles into the most lived-in velvet on the train and says that he and Noelle might break up. I acknowledge the information with a nod and lift and lower the ball of my foot on the metro’s rubber flooring. The train’s pretty deserted. Thomas keeps pushing back the time he picks me up.
Tea-time: in conversation with Na Kim
Na Kim is a Korean graphic designer based in Berlin. In the past, she has trained at the Werkplaats Typografie in Arnhem, the Netherlands, and directed for GRAPHIC magazine. Most recently, she worked as the creative lead for the Victoria & Albert Museum’s Hallyu! The Korean Wave exhibition. Do
LOOKING BEYOND BORDERS WITH ARMS OUTSTRETCHED
By virtue of its own hybridity as a manifesto, invitation, and poem, Gloria Anzaldúa’s Borderlands/La Frontera reimagines political borders; it observes their artificiality and porousness. Written in Spanish and English, Borderlands is perceptive and analytical; deconstructive and didactic. Anzal
white horse
[inspired by White Horse Hill in Folkestone, Kent] on the hill with the wind in my face: the hill where the white horse shines where they stood long ago, saw the rock, and began to carve where today the hiss of steam trains washes through the valley and lambs lie in the [&hellip
For The Record
you have grown too big. too full of images like water in fist, like sand between fingers, unreliable as ink on page. for the record, there will only ever again be vague flashes, just the cucumber slipping out the end of your sandwich pieces of gravel in your knees trampoline-burn the s
As you lay dying, in a language I barely knew
As you lay dying, you coughed up worm-strings of words in a language I barely knew. Smooth platefuls of sound, slipping like the silver-butter of moonlight on a pond. Ephemeral. If I cannot conjugate (I cannot) – I die, you die, she would die, too, – how can I feel the rough edges of [&he
