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A child (somewhere) squats, scratches / the dirt with a twig, muttering broken broken / broken muttering an excellent place to hide / an excellent hole, a hidey-hole, a spider hole, the hole she / will crawl into or through one day, not / today, thank god, not yet, she can’t know yet / each hole is a word, each word / a thread. Let’s try this again, without / the child this time—broken broken broken / no sun today, no shadow. Tiring / isn’t it, this kneeling, lips pressed to / the sidewalk, whispering into a crack. Yesterday / it all seemed normal, Brooke Adams says / to Donald Sutherland, as he drives her to / the psychiatrist—today everything seemed the same / but it wasn’t. Brooke didn’t know, couldn’t / know, not then, that Donald was gone / already gone.
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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.