New World Writing Quarterly

A Meditation on the Land
—remem­ber­ing a farm foreclosure.
                                        For Darrell Ringer, 1953–93

“Thank you,” he said, while the –more

I get the offer let­ter for my new job while sit­ting in the hos­pi­tal with my grand­ma. She frac­tured her hip.

When it comes in, the first thing I think is how abrupt­ly I found this job. It’s been a year set off by my lay­off and a can­cer diag­no­sis that –more

Me and Kyoko were dri­ving home from a nice pas­ta din­ner at our old friend Gretchen’s house when God appeared in the back seat of our car and grant­ed Kyoko one wish for sav­ing Gretchen’s life all those years ago at Action Park.

“So what’s your –more

Jon was always sit­ting there in his low-slung chair, always dim­ly glow­ing in the yel­low warmth of his lamp, always smok­ing, always drink­ing black cof­fee from a cup that, between sips, always sat on the mug warmer next to the ash­tray on the side table –more

The rich shrink can’t help him­self when he’s depressed, can’t self-med­icate with pills and stuff, he needs a ther­a­pist to help him out, to sell his house and clean his mess.

You should buy that house, my ther­a­pist says and I trust him, it’s –more

In today’s par­lance, with which I
am quite famil­iar, having
been a wraith for nigh on five
hun­dred years, one might say I had
“dri­ve.” In that I was ahead of
my time, always “lean­ing in”
always push­ing –more

“Sign here, Sandra. It includes every­thing we agreed on before you left New Zealand.” Hussein, the CEO, slid the con­tract across his desk.

“Thanks. I’ll have it back to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Don’t you trust me?”

I glanced at the print-out –more

            “You find­ing every­thing all right, Gerald?” Vivian asked. She got in the water across from me and stretched her legs out until our toes near­ly touched. I wished that I remem­bered her from two-to-three decades –more

I first came here in late August. Not used to the heat. I sat alone in an air-con­di­tioned bar drink­ing High Life, hop­ing to make a new friend, hop­ing some­one would catch my eye. I flirt­ed with a stranger. Little crin­kles formed around his eyes –more

Nature’s great mas­ter­piece, an elephant—the only harm­less great thing.
                   –John Donne

Hanging on the wall in our spare bed­room is one of the few pieces of art I own. It was bought dur­ing a bad time in my life. My boyfriend –more

Too Much Heat

The dog was hot. She could see this because she felt it her­self. Even out­side of the cot­tage, hot and sticky, a guest in her body, want­i­ng to leave. Not near­ly as uncom­fort­able as the dog, with so much fur. Today there were gnats in the air, tast­ing –more

Woman from Bulgaria, whose name I for­got right away: I was lying about lov­ing the gudul­ka. Truth is, I’d nev­er heard a gudul­ka, at least that I was aware of. But you were so far from home I could tell you would appre­ci­ate some mea­sure of val­i­da­tion. –more

As Walking In Fog

As walk­ing in a fog, I am lost.
I see only what’s right in front of me,
lay­ing down one foot then another,
hop­ing the ground will hold
as I sift feel­ings, rethink
what I said at the meeting
or lat­er on the cell
–more

Stranger

Fifty years ago I was dis­patched to a remote vil­lage for reed­u­ca­tion. After jump­ing off a truck at a dis­tri­b­u­tion cen­ter, I car­ried my belong­ings on my back and fol­lowed a dirt track wind­ing mile after mile to my des­ti­na­tion. When I got there, the –more

Here’s what I’ll call the begin­ning of the sto­ry. We were sit­ting at the captain’s table. Not as impor­tant as that sounds, since this was a Polish freighter trav­el­ing from Hamburg to New York, not a lux­u­ry lin­er, with maybe six­teen pri­vate guests –more

Jackie put her high tops, under­wear, and tank top in the freez­er under a bag of Tyson bread­ed chick­en ten­ders. An hour lat­er she took them out and put them all on. She didn’t wear socks in the high tops. She put on sun­glass­es. Then she walked to –more

Bendable, Poseable Jesus of Nazareth Defines Grace

Grace is a swal­low of freeze-your-balls-off cold water
in sum­mer near­ly any­where in the Middle East—therefore,
it’s the sweet feel­ing you’re alive and present in the world.

The ruined world, cer­tain­ly. But goofy-hope­ful, nonetheless.
Don’t –more