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Articles by Natasha Sajé
What to Make - High Country News
This article was produced in collaboration with the Food & Environment Reporting Network, an independent, nonprofit news organization. when A & D come to dinner? Last time: minestrone and vegetable tart–roast asparagus and carrots on feta creamed with a clove of garlic on crisp baked pastry. Dessert? Those thin and crunchy gingersnaps with oats and buckwheat? What else? Cold outside in mid-March, so not ice cream. Not rice pudding cake. Also not dried figs cooked in sherry.
What to Make - High Country News
This article was produced in collaboration with the Food & Environment Reporting Network, an independent, nonprofit news organization. when A & D come to dinner? Last time: minestrone and vegetable tart–roast asparagus and carrots on feta creamed with a clove of garlic on crisp baked pastry. Dessert? Those thin and crunchy gingersnaps with oats and buckwheat? What else? Cold outside in mid-March, so not ice cream. Not rice pudding cake. Also not dried figs cooked in sherry.
The Best Essays: the 2021 PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award
We’re talking about the books shortlisted for the 2021 PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay. As an essayist yourself, or as a reader of essays, what are you looking for? What’s the key to a good essay? I have very specific and, in some ways, old fashioned views on the essay—though I think that the books we chose tend to confirm the ‘relevance’, perhaps even the continuing urgency, of those views.
One Poem by Martha Silano
I can’t stop thinking about the wild horses of Chernobyl, keep going back to the sepia photographs, horses with glowing eyes, living in a town where 33 years ago the residents were ordered to evacuate, take only essentials, leave their televisions and clothes, their furniture and artwork, their cars. Were told it would just be a few days, that the police would guard their homes.
Eight Poems from Dryside Verses: Four Seasons on Goodlow Rim by John Daniel
The maple is shedding— I lug in firewood, crushing summer with each step. No visitors this month. Me alone for distraction. To hike sidehill this slope studded with rocks is an awkward honor. Ah, trapped spider, evolution didn’t plan on sinks. Sleek does drink and nuzzle at the pond. On my desk, a gray hair. Moonrise over Goodlow sends juniper shadows far downhill on frosted grass. The pond skinned with creased ice this morning—a spider begins an expedition.
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.
Wrack Line | Terrain.org
The sun paves on the waves a glinting path to a far horizon. I grew up on Lake Michigan beaches. Dirty bare feet spiked with dune grass thorns, the rhythmic thud of waves. My home is in the Far North, now, but I still return to Michigan, for reunion or retreat, to the dunes where my parents now live. On the lake, November sidles up: darker days, cloudy skies. I nestle in to think and read and wander.
against fireworks
we huddle for the blazing man-made strident colored stars shot with cannons propelled by rockets they last seconds then dissipate like apologies we sign off on the noise on costs and damages through habit or hunger for diversion wouldn’t we do better to love a face any face a dog’s Advertisement Advertisement This article also appeared in print, under the headline “against fireworks,” in the August 2020, issue.
Alive by Natasha Sajé
You and me, of course, and the animals we feed and then slaughter. The boxelder bug with its dot of red, yeast in the air making bread and wine, bacteria in yogurt, carrots, the apple tree, each white blossom. And rock, which lives so slowly it’s hard to imagine it as sand then glass. A sea called dead is one that will not mirror us. We think as human beings we deserve every last thing. Say the element copper. Incandescence glowing bright and soft like Venus.
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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