My father called daily: did they have markets here, places to rent videos, Chinese food? How to explain that what mattered was the husky across the street, the border collies up the block, the retrievers next door.
Bonnie Cisneros interviews Ana Castillo
A mother’s unconditional love, in my opinion, is the ultimate selfless love.
To pan is to suggest, unrealistically, that you know better than the master.
Willful Disregard is a beautiful, shatteringly real portrayal of how obsession and love can take a serious, professional, critical person and make them act more akin to a crushing high schooler.
Seen from a car traveling eighty-five miles an hour on a highway, western Kansas seems like an illusion, like spatial molasses.
Marilyse Figueroa interviews (and reviews) Rios de la Luz
There is no one out there who can tell a story the way you tell a story because all of our lived experiences differ. I think this is beautiful.
He left the house and its solid worries, peeled / paint, basement brick seeping and bulging, / his pale spouse, wearing nothing, rolling towards / him unconsciously as he rose.
Of rolling downhill in a white frock, her arms tucked up close to her chest, her hands folded almost in prayer beneath her chin, of rolling over grass and dandelions, dandy lions, down dally lions, edible and bright, each one calling out her name as she rolled over them, Iris! Iris! Iris!
Your test scores were like long-shot lottery winnings, Grandma lighting votive lamps for scholarships, your father moonlighting behind the bar at the V.F.W. These were their signs of love.
These lines struck me like a beautiful, melancholy song, and I couldn’t help rereading them several times, thinking of my own girlhood and the years that have gone by and will never come back.
Maybe today is the day you open / your mouth. What’s stopping you? / Is it a fear you’ll drown someone?
If you have been the victim of a home product party centered around purchasing tupperware, Mary Kay, or some other item you don’t need or want, you will instantly understand the way Emily Carroll mixes horror with the mundane.
I have a recurrent vision of working on an assembly line where the faceless broken bodies move past me and where my job is to patch them together. But I can’t keep up.
Dickman’s poems are vast and austere, somewhat sparse, but somehow expansive.