Online Exclusives

12.04.97
Green Angel
After the complete failure of the tall motors used to shift the wind toward the ocean, the village became isolated from the others that had been planted along the continent’s jagged black shores. [...]
11.30.97
The Big R
Hourglass figure
receiving threats [...]
11.18.97
Gold Carp Jack Fruit Mirrors
You want, simply, to stop breathing and hear.
Yesterday was a day just like tomorrow. [...]
10.29.97
Darkness and Light
There is a not-so-funny story my aunt Josephine used to like to tell: “When you were born, your mother thought you were so ugly that as soon as she brought you home she shut you in the closet.” [...]
10.21.97
Barcelona
What does the poem erupt?
                                          Nothing. [...]
10.15.97
From Uproar in Heaven
by Fred Ho
Nothing in the world is impossible
If you are of sincere will. [...]
08.21.97
From Thaumatrope
Cantatrice of redglass
as a mirror in flowers
as bloodstone hangs fissuring suns
as a gaze suffers the light inviolate— [...]
08.21.97
From Mermaid’s Purse
It was never mentioned why the princess was placed upon the top of the

glass mountain, or how she might descend. [...]
07.30.97
Three Poems
The handwriting
is cramped and hard to read.
The story familiar, someone in unknown territory. [...]
06.09.97
Cravings 
Emmy Hitler ate lamp shades in her third trimester. [...]
06.09.97
Must We Stoop for Violets in the Hedge?
Walking down the street with it, I studied its amazing contours in shadow. The hair loomed above me, spiny and monstrous.  [...]
06.09.97
The Intransigent Penetration of a Metaphor: A Post-Interview Encounter with Robert Coover
A writer needs isolation, a cell of his own, that’s obvious, but distance can also help. It has a way of freeing the imagination, stirring memory.  [...]
06.06.97
The Manuscript
by Severo Sarduy
translated by Esther Allen
He had spent the entire night smoking twisted and intoxicating cigars that filled the room with a bluish, sickly sweet smoke.  [...]
06.06.97
Winter Visits against His Cell 
I used to live in an office, or rather, there used to be an office where I live.  People used to come here and rent things, places to put their extras, places to store the artifacts they were trying to forget.  [...]

Connect

e-mail
Submissions

In Print

Vol. 82
Works & Days
Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

June 19, 2024
I am sorry for not writing sooner. To be completely frank, I was afraid of receiving a response and knowing for certain that you’re finished with me. I am very troubled by the way we’ve left things.
 
June 12, 2024
It took place in London at the end of the seventeenth century—a man was spending the evening at home, often thinking of a friend of his, a woman, who was very ill, worrying about her, hoping she would live, when there was a knock on the door, and she entered, looking fine, thriving, in fact, and sat down in a normal way and began a normal conversation, though she seemed a little more serious than usual until he began to cry, at which she continued quietly, discussing things of the soul, aspects of time, and he began to sob, and she continued speaking quietly, as he sobbed and sobbed, and when he finally looked up she was gone.
June 5, 2024
I’ll just speak for myself. This seems to be the best plan. When you try to speak on behalf of others you run into trouble. See? Already I has become you, but I cannot be you. But you can come along with me, at my side if you like, even if my walk is a bit awkward and you probably want to move more quickly over the terrain. Probably you wouldn’t say “terrain.” You would say ground or path or street. These choices don’t amount to a disagreement, just a different habit of mind. The mind’s terrain. Just now my mind’s terrain is a bit foggy, a bit dreary. It feels, inside of this fog, quite empty, as if, when the fog lifts, there will be nothing but an expanse uninflected by things to see or do, undisturbed by names and places, recollections and glimpses into other times and other places.