LIT The Journal of The New School Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program

Time 2020-09-15 19:03:06

Web Name: LIT The Journal of The New School Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program

WebSite: http://www.litmagazine.org

ID:47803

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The Journal of The New School Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Program The rain pressing the maple leaves looks like broken green piano keys. This view out my bedroom window, this TV without sound. I prayed for snow, not wet sunlight. In a clearing, I once asked God to hold my sadness and was told to build a bigger heart. A bigger ark. A better window to clean the smudges off each morning. In the maple tree, a cardinal looks covered in its own blood. He sees himself in the dirty glass and tries to attack his shade. For two hours. He dives, crashes, and repeats, steam rising through the branches. When I go outside to save him by scaring him, he s Seven, Going on Nothing It was my sister’s birthday eve, the anticipation as big an event as the real thing, even for me, who always got a sympathy gift to curb the Little Sister envy. I got to see the surprise cake my mom had chosen, fresh out of a glossy flip book at the store. A supermodel cake, impossibly symmetrical and airbrushed heavily with icing. I couldn’t help myself, I had to sneak down to the fridge that night just to get a second look. Harmless, I thought, until my index finger was two knuckles deep, right in the perfect middle but might as well have been down Medium: aesthetic distancing, epidemiology John Keats did not die from the Coronavirus. Grammatically speaking, one does not Die from the virus: As a direct cause of death, One dies of it. One dies from an indirect agent, for example, He died from falling down the Spanish Steps. John Keats never entered the Prada store Near the Spanish Steps. Though epidemiologically speaking, in terms Of viruses and the blurriness Of direct/indirect causes, I may be on shaky territory. It has become abundantly clear that We are all on territory that is shaking. At the time of writing, Due to the Coronavirus, the Prada Store Near the Spanish Steps Is not Reading Marko Pogačar s poetry is like walking into an empty field only to realize that it is teeming with life. Things begin to crawl up through the surface and emerge from the sky and become more real, more important, more meaningful, more consequential the further we allow him to guide us through this uncertain world, which we soon learn is our own. Perhaps his shift in vision comes from being a child witness to the violent fracturing of his world – what was once Yugoslavia – where the promise of unity, fraternity and social justice ceded to their opposites. Where what was visible on the surface gave way to what Neykov’s photography captures vast scenes where the archetypes are at large. Margarita Serafimova *** *** *** *** They see solely us. They see us. They only see us. We are everywhere – we, the disappeared. From The Disappeared by Margarita Serafimova  *** *** *** *** ***   ***   *** Milen Neykov is an award-winning

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