Ryo Yamaguchi
  • Vacation

    Something slipped and then it rang faintly
    and this was the birth of the islands.

  • Sinéad Morrissey
  • Lighthouse

    The end of August. Already the high-flung
    daylight sky of our Northern solstice dulls
    earlier and earlier to a clouded bowl;

  • Michael Autrey
  • (Review) Transformations and Translations: Morrissey's Parallax and Selected Poems

    Morrissey is always keenly aware of the difference between what is apparent, what present; and the disjunction between appearances and presences.

  • Carina del Valle Schorske
  • The West

    the stiff weeds were rich
    in their way, rich with rattlesnakes
    and silky poppies.

  • Emily Hoffman
  • Summertime II

    Spots on the glass of morning.

  • Wendy Brown and Michael Kinnucan
  • An Interview with Wendy Brown

    We have lost the distinctive promises of liberal democracy, as well as the contrast with how those promises are eroded or hollowed out by class society and capitalism.

  • Hannah Loeb
  • The Participant

    The long, lethargic periods of her life:
    so: this must be the deep middle of one.

    Jeannie Vanasco
  • Remains

    the dog is grief, the dog is grief.

  • Homero Aridjis (translated by Chloe Aridjis)
  • The Child Poet

    The cemetery lay beside a field belonging to my father. Its whitewashed wall, built from alternating stone and brick, rose around it like a supernatural barrier separating life from death.

  • Lisa Hiton
  • Pastoral

    I have to arrive
    in the field of what is

  • Peter Streckfus

    Leaf, you said,
    as the leaf departed.

  • Renee Gladman
  • Number Five of the Eleven Calamities

    We built a novel of the room and stepped in and lost our way,

  • Eli Payne Mandel
  • A Real Estate

    “Did I want this?” you ask the mug of tea. “The alternatives were worse,” says the tea.

  • Søren Kierkegaard (translated by Morten Høi Jensen)
  • Excerpts from a Year of One Still Living

    I was so sure I was going to die on or before my thirty-fourth birthday that I am almost tempted to believe that the date of my birth is incorrect, and that I may yet die on my thirty-fourth birthday.

About Prodigal

Prodigal is a literary journal featuring new poetry and prose.


Jordan Zandi, Aaron Kerner | Editors
Michelle Sterling | Prose Editor
Janet Foxman | Poetry Editor
Chiara Scully | Editorial Assistant
Vilija Pakalniskis | Art Direction

Advisory Board

Louise Glück
Henri Cole
Rosanna Warren
David Ferry

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