Contributors

Genevieve Valentine [ + ][ – ]
Laura Valeri [ + ][ – ]
César Vallejo [ + ][ – ]
Helena Van Brande [ + ][ – ]
Laura van den Berg [ + ][ – ]
Jeff VanderMeer [ + ][ – ]
Amelia Van Donsel [ + ][ – ]
Ashley VanDoorn [ + ][ – ]
Don Van Vliet [Captain Beefheart] [ + ][ – ]
Adrian Van Young [ + ][ – ]
Matthew Vasiliauskas [ + ][ – ]
Reetika Vazirani [ + ][ – ]
Adam Veal [ + ][ – ]
Sara Veglahn [ + ][ – ]
Vehel [ + ][ – ]
Lawrence Venuti [ + ][ – ]
John Verbos [ + ][ – ]
Shawn Vestal [ + ][ – ]
Patrizia Villani [ + ][ – ]
Helena María Viramontes [ + ][ – ]
Vint Virga [ + ][ – ]
Don Van Vliet [ + ][ – ]
Paula Vogel [ + ][ – ]
William T. Vollmann [ + ][ – ]
Larissa Volokhonsky [ + ][ – ]
Alexander Vvedensky [ + ][ – ]

Connect

e-mail
Submissions

In Print

Vol. 78
Conjunctions:78
Fear Itself
Spring 2022
Edited by Bradford Morrow

Online

Two Stories
—Translated from Polish by Katarzyna Szuster-Tardi
by Bronka Nowicka
June 29, 2022
Here, they combine the knowledge of choosing words with the art of touch. Before somebody utters soft fur, they keep their hands on a dog’s head for years.

From granaries, they dispense hunger, a spice that stimulates the sense of lack. The king trusts that absence is the saltpeter of things susceptible to nonexistence: what doesn’t keep in salt will be preserved in hunger. No myth can be cut like the fabric for a coat, the halves of which will be dragged through life. Thanks to the spice, the subjects of the kingdom don’t know stale love, only unfulfilled. The professed religion is apnea. All maturing is mutiny. Red fruit get a visit from hangmen.
Memory as Wind
by Lance Olsen
June 22, 2022
No, that’s not it, that’s not how it happens, it’s—

—because I’m here, have been for years and years, in the backseat of the Oldsmobile 88, top down, wind enraged, tearing along some country road at night, Jackson drunk at the wheel, Ruthie by his—

—the world all quick nervous giggles and skinfizz, the whirled world, the world like leaves spinning in a crazy autumn gust, only it’s not autumn, no, that’s, it’s what, it’s—
Four Poems
by Shane McCrae
June 15, 2022
THE SPEECH OF THE THIN KING’S MINDER

The thin king bound in the fiery hollow shook
The chain by which his left arm was suspended
And from a hatch that rattled open just

Above his right eye dropped a demon like
A glass-winged gerbil, who immediately
Began to stab the thin king’s pupil with

A dripping claw, and said, Forgive me, king,
For my unwilling violence. I bite
My paws off, but they grow back while I chew

So that I wonder while I’m chewing, Is
This still my paw I’m chewing, and, forgive
Me, king, but that thought helps me swallow.
advertisement