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August 3, 2023 - By Edward Clifford

All day the sun moved over the rock I say on.
All day I tried to think like an elk.
I'd been drinking bad wine
from a thermos and counting the blades
on little bluestem. It was nearly dark
when they finally appeared under the gnarled oak,
brown legs in prarie grass. And there's the bull—
—from "Ghost Child," Volume 61, Issue 2 (Summer 2023)

Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
In college, I was fortunate to take a workshop with Frank Bidart. I was an English/Pol Sci major but hadn’t taken any creative writing courses. I remember so clearly my first poem for that workshop! I wrote about my great-grandparents and the cabin they build by hand in the Black Hills in 1929....

The Presence of the Past of Things

July 31, 2023 - By Patricio Pron

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July 29, 2023 - By Ward Schumaker

A neighbor boy asked me what I remembered of the 1918 Flu Pandemic. I had to explain that, appearances aside, I wasn't quite that old. But in fact, when I was very young the world was hit with a different epidemic, one I couldn't comprehend at the time but which affected my family greatly. In my mind it became a mystery that needed to be unraveled and as I got older, in hope of understanding, I'd frequently ask my dad to repeat this story:

“It was 1948,” he'd tell me, “year of the epidemic. You were four, maybe five. I was dressing for work when your brother Cliff came running into the bedroom saying a man was pacing back-and-forth in front of the house, crying. Outside I found Chuck Renston walking in circles, holding his head and sobbing. Polio...

10 Questions for David Moolten

July 27, 2023 - By Edward Clifford

We stayed together like two voices
trying to find each other in the dark.
She had an uncle like a father to her
except when like a king he made her
bow her head, and if he held it
to his groin it was in a secret life
she kept from no one save herself. . . .
—from "The Twelve Dancing Princesses," Volume 61, Issue 2

Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
One of the first mature pieces I had published was a poem called “Trajectories,” about a boy diagnosed with cancer and his relationship with his mother. I was at that time dealing with such a diagnosis. I wasn't a boy. I was twenty-six, but scared, felt I'd suddenly regressed in certain ways. At the same time, the...

10 Questions for Mirgul Kali

July 21, 2023 - By Edward Clifford

The pass through the mountains led into a narrow, serpentine ravine with dense forests of birch and poplar on both sides. A caravan of nine camels loaded with bridal dowry and accompanied by a couple dozen men and women on horseback slowly made its way along the rocky trail, now ascending steadily, now dipping abruptly downhill. The sun, that had only recently been seen high overhead, occasionally peeked between the stark gray hilltops, which crowded and clambered on top of one another. At times, the sun hid behind them and shadows fell on the canyon walls, turning them deep green. Only the pale bark of the tall birch trees, slender and close-set, shone dimly in the dark. Toqsaba, riding in the middle of the procession kept turning to look at his young bride.
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