Something slipped and then it rang faintly
and this was the birth of the islands.
The end of August. Already the high-flung
daylight sky of our Northern solstice dulls
earlier and earlier to a clouded bowl;
Morrissey is always keenly aware of the difference between what is apparent, what present; and the disjunction between appearances and presences.
the stiff weeds were rich
in their way, rich with rattlesnakes
and silky poppies.
Spots on the glass of morning.
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.
The long, lethargic periods of her life:
so: this must be the deep middle of one.
I love the conceit behind Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven—that one person’s private obsession with an imagined world, rendered as a limited edition graphic novel, somehow survives apocalypse and deeply effects people in the future. You just don’t know what will matter, later, or what tricks of fate will do, what will survive, and resonate, and why.
the dog is grief, the dog is grief.
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.
I have to arrive
in the field of what is
Leaf, you said,
as the leaf departed.
We built a novel of the room and stepped in and lost our way,
“Did I want this?” you ask the mug of tea. “The alternatives were worse,” says the tea.
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.
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