• poetry

    Bach in Köthen

    As to the hide, how long till scrapers can be set aside and chamois cloths and brushes taken up? As to stitching, how much hemp, how many holes will keep the so skin fastened to the sole’s persistent rocking? Such questions are moot, or rather, mute: if the foot’s learned anything by now, it knows it cannot tame the boot by talking.

  • nonfiction


    June: an odd name for a Jewish girl, she’d always thought, particu- larly one who’d been raised, as she had been, squarely in the Jewish suburbs—in her case, in Bethesda, Maryland, where her father was a dentist, and her mother sat on boards, and cooked. By the time June was in high school, her mother had taken courses in French, Italian, Indian, and Chinese cooking, and for June and her sisters: it was always something of a game to guess what dinner was going to be: won ton or fettuccini? Coq au vin or vangi bhat? June’s father had preferred straight- forward American cooking, barbecued chicken and pot roast and…

  • fiction


    A baby. A er all these years of me wanting one and him not wanting one, now he wants a baby. When nally I have lost the desire for one. Our children are seven and ve. I don’t know that I can handle a new- born again. I’d thought we were in agreement on the adoption. I look out the window into the night. e trees are lea ess and still. e sky must be cloudy because I can’t see any stars. Winter is upon us; the days are cold and sunless. I shiver, wondering if it’s my skin or my soul that’s chilled. On the way to the o…