Colorado State University Center for Literary Publishing

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Island Rule

Nov, 17 2017 | no responses

My mother’s house was built into the side of the volcano, where it was green and too thick to take anything but the machete-cut paths. We were field-workers. That is, until the men in uniform came.

The Grammar of Untold Stories

Nov, 17 2017 | no responses

We were going to visit Budapest for a vacation. “As long as we’re there, we could visit your grandmother’s village,” he said. “Maybe do a little research. You might find a family member who still lives there.”

Searching for the Duck Hole

Mar, 27 2017 | no responses

My mother started calling me about a year and a half ago. She is in her late eighties and suffers from cognitive decline, so she does not remember that we haven’t had a relationship for more than twenty-five years.

Silent Impacts

Mar, 22 2017 | no responses

Image from Boston Public Library Two midwestern villages—I’ll call them Arno and Morgan—face off against each other across the banks of the Bainbrydge River. Their feud is old and largely undefined, like the one that exists between my uncle Harry and cousin Al or the one in my nine-year marriage. The air between the two [...]

Touring

Mar, 22 2017 | no responses

The parents always love me. I walk backward and wind clumps of parents and their sixteen- and seventeen-year-old offspring through our tree-lined campus and explain why they should spend sixty thousand dollars a year sending their precious progeny to Willton College.

Emergen(ce) of Feeling

Mar, 20 2017 | no responses

Lightning is God / taking pictures of the victims. The present, like your elbow, / bends just one direction.

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