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Articles by Elizabeth McLagan
Two Poems by Eric Pankey
Astray There is another word for this. I arrived here via. I found myself astray. The random birds, omens of randomness, Scuffled over the millet thrown down. I followed a path of et cetera, carried like charm My own death, a stifled yawn. A sparrow upheld the mulberry As the cicadas’ racket shriveled. Heat awaited a remedy of wind. Who scattered the millet about? Who left an irregular trail of et cetera? The mulberry stood empty, tenantless. Amid the random, I found myself astray.
Letter to America by Robert Wrigley
Come Home I had to lean the ladder against the eaves and stand upon the third step up to drive its ladderfeet down through snow. Had to take the pushbroom up to clear a way along the roofpitch to the flue, which had to be—the chore that ought to have been done before but was not—swept likewise clear. Or almost, in a blizzard. Had to wear a headlamp, had to thread the four thirtysix-inch extension rods to the brush and haul the twelve-plus feet of bouncing apparatus up the ladder to the flue.
One Poem by Natasha Sajé
in the beginning all the world was water until you moskwas dove to the depths to gather a ball of mud blew on it until it became the whole earth together this morning for safety you prepare for the hard freeze move quietly in the dark of a new moon you hear glaciers crack thousands of miles away carry a map of water in the desert how did you draw it? how can we read it?
Two Poems by Jennifer K. Sweeney
Wildest The hour of snacks and homework and we’re enlarging the world with adverbs of scale. See how easily smooth becomes smoother, how we can silk it further to the sheen that is most itself. You are taller, stronger, a little further from my center, but not furthest (may we stop here in the horizon note of further) and you want to know how accretion applies to wild. One field left longer, one never entered by anything that sought to change it.
Clearstories | Terrain.org
These cleared and stained specimens allow us to see things about the animals we could not otherwise observe. Artist Statement by Stephen Petegorsky I’ve been interested in animals—living or otherwise—for as long as I can remember. Growing up in New York City, my exposure to animals was limited. I saw dogs, squirrels, the occasional horse, and unhappy creatures in their depressing surroundings at the Central Park Zoo. I was fascinated by the dioramas in the American Museum of Natural History.
Hole in the Sky: A Tribute to William Kittredge
The story never leaves us but becomes part of who we are and what we do and why we do it. How Doors Open My dad had a theory that was only partially accurate. It’s best described with a memory like this: One day he left for Savannah, some two hours away, on business, and he wasn’t on the road long before rain began to fall. Suddenly, with a jerk and a flapping, a tire went flat. My dad got out of his car with a towel over his head, changed the tire, turned around, and drove home. “Why?” I asked him.
Letter to America by Victoria Chang
Obit America—died on February 14, 2018, and my dead mother doesn’t know. Since her death, America has died a series of small deaths, each one less precise than the next. My tears are now shaped like hooks but my heart is damp still. If it is lucky, it is in the middle of its beats. The unlucky dead children hold telegrams they must hand to a woman at a desk. The woman will collect their belongings and shadows.
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