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Articles by Zach Linge
Network Temporality in Percival Everett’s Poetry
Open AccessArticle by English Department, Meredith College, Raleigh, NC 27607, USA Humanities 2023, 12(4), 84; https://doi.org/10.3390/h12040084 (registering DOI) Received: 26 June 2023 / Revised: 29 July 2023 / Accepted: 4 August 2023 / Published: 16 August 2023 (This article belongs to the Special Issue The Continuing Challenges of Percival Everett) 1. Introduction To write about lyric poetry is to enter from the outset an impossibly contested territory.
A Poem by Zach Linge: 'Bring the OJ' Original
Josh, when living your best life you are a floodgate, the last restraint between us open mouths and feelings we had never had or have had since. Until you, we didn’t know the sky could turn purple, or that our bruised bodies could be targets for a kiss—from beneath a mustache, yes, or from a needle. Thank you for teaching me to suffer with company. Thank you for showing us that together we can weather even weeks of rattling at death’s door.
39.1 Kelli Russell Agodon
of me. It let me put my feet on her furniture, let me toss my pistachio shells on her floor. I suppose melancholy had low expectations when it came to girlfriends, she wanted me to hold her dead flowers, so I did. She wanted me to swear the moon was not an idol, and I did that too, though it is, and I don’t tell her this because sometimes I confuse obsession with love, confuse love with the way the moon curves with its high ass, with its hips swinging left and opening doors.
39.1 Brandon Taylor
The art show in the café above the bookstore needed a curator. There was not a lot of money, and the job was more an internship than a real job, but Otto thought that after a year or so, he could put it on his CV and get a job somewhere else doing something better.
38.2 Hannah Bridges
I once let a pig, pink and gleaming, into my bed to sleep. I heard it chuffing in the grass outside and went to fetch it. It was a full moon. Blades of grass stood rigid like snowflake spindles. I offered the pig crisp leeks and a ripe tomato. She looked in my eyes. She sniffed my palms, sucked citrus and skin into her snout. I lived alone when this happened. I never told anyone how her fat-padded back curled into me like a question, or that I woke to her wet snout on mine.
38.2 Mag Gabbert
first used as a common name for houseplants derived from the Greek with clenched fist and Latin to fight pierce or prick associated with petals women rawness and deflowering which happened to me when I was nine hospitalized and needed some kind of test the young woman called Rosaline who Romeo loved before he met Juliet the word’s root is shared with poignant puncture punch and repugnant as a child the thing I most wanted was a canopy over my bed a dreamy veiled curtain to pull shut and hide...
38.2 Sarah Edwards
Chicken eggs, the word MICHIGAN, your own face in the mirror: things began to take on a falseness if you thought about them long enough. On Tuesday, Maggie went to the doctor. The act required driving three hours back to the university clinic in order to see a doctor in-network, but the effort seemed necessary—the lump, and the thought of the lump, and the thought of the thinking of the lump, had taken on a bright, gummy urgency. Do you smoke? Do you have five drinks a week, or more like twenty?
An Interview with Jenny Bhatt
Photo by Praveen Ahuja Jenny Bhatt is a writer, literary translator, and literary critic. She is the host of the Desi Books podcast. Her short story collection, Each of Us Killers, was released on Sep 8, 2020, with 7.13 Books. And her literary translation of Gujarati short story writer Dhumketu’s best short fiction will be out in late-2020.
February 2020 | Poetry Magazine | Poetry Foundation
A pair of adolescent boys grabs a rabbit to shear off its ears. It doesn’t matter why, whether they’re sad or from the city. What matters is what they do with their hands: hold the blade, hang the rabbit by...
For Baron B. by Zach Linge
On the blacktop, along the track, against the gym’s bricks, somewhere, you said, I teased you in middle school, some- where, relentlessly, you said. Are you gay yet? You were seated in a circle I’d run in, who used strange language: brown, white, blow, bars, bud, 8-ball, triple-Cs. A sophomore. I’m not fucking gay, Zach. Dre gave you an out, keeping you in the closet, Yeah, we did it. Okay. Then you admitted it.
Fingers on a Gay Man
On the blacktop, along the track, against the gym’s bricks, somewhere, you said, I teased you in middle school, some- where, relentlessly, you said. Are you gay yet? You were seated in a circle I’d run ...
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