Nov/Dec 2020 • Vol. XLII No. 6 |

American Goshawk

Read a micro-conversation with the author here. I strode into the woods in a brute faith, certain the forest would give me what I needed. If there was a mathematics I was all for it, math being hunger’s distaff cousin. This was after the season of the yellow ladyslipper, these woods’ lone orchid, though I saw their green tread everywhere, bipedal among the needles and hush. I was no longer in love with my life, or with anyone’s. I was thinking of Bulgakov’s Ivan, stumbling around Moscow in his nightclothes with a paper icon pinned to his chest—and who in the end must promise to give up the practice of poetry (bad poetry) in order to achieve something like peace. I asked myself just what are you trying to see through (remember, Jesus ate and drank with his disciples, to prove that He was not a ghost). It was the strongest hour of the day. I could feel my vows being lifted from my body the way a novice cook lifts a heavy pot lid, carefully and with more than the usual fea

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G. C. Waldrep’s most recent collections are Archicembalo (Tupelo, 2009), winner of the Dorset Prize; Your Father on the Train of Ghosts (BOA Editions, 2011), in collaboration with John Gallaher; and a chapbook, St. Laszlo Hotel (Projective Industries, 2011). He lives in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, where he edits the journal West Branch and teaches at Bucknell University. He also serves as Editor-at-Large for The Kenyon Review.

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Inspecting a Region of Converging Territory (Including Parts of Georgia, Alabama, & Tennessee), Which Contains Three Different Places Named “Etowah,” Where I am Trying to Locate the Birthplace of My Paternal Great-Great Grandmother Mahala Anderson Flippin, Who May or May Not Have Been a Cherokee Woman

By Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

Read a micro-conversation with the author here. I strode into the woods in a brute faith, certain the forest would give me what I needed. If there was a mathematics […]

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