Issues

Yes, I saw them all, saw them, met some, Richard Hell, Lou Reed, Basquiat, Warhol, Burroughs, Kenneth Koch, and it all left me feeling invisible or fucked, fucked sideways, fucked by a john who stiffs you on your fee and doesn’t leave a tip, it wasn . . . Subscriber Access Required This article is available to paid subscribers with digital access. Already a subscriber with digital access? Log in here to read the full

Dead at Last Dead at last!  Dead at last! Now I can see the world as it is floating indifferent like the gull from the hospital window white with black wingtips feeling the currents of air guiding its flight.  Perfectly free from compassion for me. Nirvana I can’t find the can opener and then I do. The electrician shows me my name on his forearm “Linda” in pink magic marker which is how he remembers

The Announcement A bird came to see me once, a talking magpie that said, This will happen— and I didn’t so much agree as think, why me? It was arbitrary, as far as I could see. Ordinary—being at hand and being asked to do whatever needs doing. Steadfast as a tattoo that can’t be washed off. A castle that isn’t mine reminds me that this was not my idea, especially considering how inevitable death is,

Family Keepsake My grandmother wanted to die but in the online form, I say no, no family member has died by or attempted suicide  because  having children, no matter the goal,  is still giving life. Because that’s what blood is. The psychiatrist asked if she’d tried to kill herself before.

What a pleasure to introduce five poems by the prolific and brilliant Molly Peacock, queen of rhyme and meter, who has done so much to bring contemporary freshness and zing and a sometimes-startling intimacy to formal poetry. In this grouping, Peacock writes about the death of her husband, Joyce scholar Michael Groden, about the strains of caring for a sick and dying person, no matter how beloved, and about the beginning of a new life