by Michelle Boisseau
Clock in the hall, tea in cups, Henry James has come to call on George Eliot. “To begin with,” he writes his father, “she is magnificently ugly, deliciously hideous.”
by Janice Obuchowski
His heartbreak loud, demonstrative. And when his mother died, this tendency became exacerbated. He cried for weeks, although this grief—unlike his other various melancholies—was pure. Sully felt that despair, too—like a hole he could jump into and fall and fall.
by Alice Friman
The Rapture must have been cancelled.
The only sudden flight I’ve seen
belongs to the bird nesting in my begonias
who takes off each time I open the door.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections