Colorado State University Center for Literary Publishing


Searching for the Duck Hole

Apr, 27 2018 | 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. Despite her memory struggles, she figured out my home number and leaves messages on it. The first one, transcribed to include her pauses, looks like poetry:


Apr, 27 2018 | no responses

After my daughter’s birth in 2002, there were nights I sat in the rocking chair next to her crib, understanding that the world would be better if I killed myself. And her. I’d grip the arms of the chair and flex every muscle in my body to stop myself. One night, I walked into the room where her father was reading and sat on the edge of the bed beside him. I admitted I had no feelings—for him, for her, for myself—but that we could be friends; we could raise her together. We’d be fine. Our lives would be fine.

Diving Makes the Water Deep

Apr, 10 2018 | no responses

For Savich, there is no difference between that which is learned in the world and the learning that can happen in a poem; the one aids the other and vice versa.

Surfing with Sartre

Mar, 29 2018 | no responses

The philosophical attitude of existentialism so perfectly fits our time, you’d think it was invented for us.

A History of Nomadism

Feb, 26 2018 | no responses

My family didn’t move to these places, but their shapes, their possible breaths, bumped against my own history, my immediate future, parallel universes that might suddenly rope around my present, palpitating self.

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