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She’s nearing stone, dirt-dried hair.
The bird in her chest a bankrupt
conductor, improvising. A lunar
river seeks to collect her, garnishes
grass banks with murk. Tonquin Mountain
sharpens its trap, there is no escape
from this one song, a collection
of end notes, a crawl space of spirals
performing the passage to sleep.
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Our well-being depends on a better understanding of how the logic of labor has twisted our relationship with pleasure.
“I was my father’s son. My father was Nai Nai’s least favorite.” A Taiwanese American man, driven from home by a secret, reevaluates his childhood memories of his grandmother.
MacArthur Genius Kelly Lytle Hernández makes the case for why U.S. history only makes sense when told as a binational story.