And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.

By K-Ming Chang
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Fiction

And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.

Poetry

The sun sieves through the canopy— / rivers are relenting. My soul seats itself // for the first time. Where it is quiet, it becomes cold. / There is nothing I must do but die— // what joy to let go of all things—what ease to give up.

Poetry

To constellate; archipelago. // Portmanteau & neologize. // To fix a golden / foil across the mouth— // a burial mask / to keep the evil out. // To raise walled cities / stone & green with rain.

Essays

You spoke through the impossible and you teach us once more how a story, through a faithful, stubborn kind of continuation, can be like a collective strength.

Fiction

In video games, the fear of the sudden propels you forward. Not so in life.

Fiction

And though I knew it was someone’s son, I unburied the rooster in the dark and kick-started a fire and roasted it on a spit, my fingers lamping with grease.

Essays

You spoke through the impossible and you teach us once more how a story, through a faithful, stubborn kind of continuation, can be like a collective strength.

Poetry

The sun sieves through the canopy— / rivers are relenting. My soul seats itself // for the first time. Where it is quiet, it becomes cold. / There is nothing I must do but die— // what joy to let go of all things—what ease to give up.

Fiction

In video games, the fear of the sudden propels you forward. Not so in life.

Poetry

To constellate; archipelago. // Portmanteau & neologize. // To fix a golden / foil across the mouth— // a burial mask / to keep the evil out. // To raise walled cities / stone & green with rain.