The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
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The baby had come from a place none of us could remember. Our grandmother was headed there.
The author of Mother of God discusses the limitations of realism, Frank Bidart, and the anguished duality of shame.
Standing in the wreckage of these spaces unlocks a sensation people often crave, but can’t name.
It’s an imagined past, a pastoral imaginary, an alternate timeline in the multiverse.
“Bird,” he cried, “I come on behalf of the emperor. Your voice is all anyone speaks of.”
What else is it we would want from love, apart from love?
The activist-academic Silvia Federici has never muted her message to get ahead. What’s the cost of refusing to sell out?
The swimming pool is my secret world and safe haven away from shame and judgement. But it hasn’t come easy.
Who decided that women get to be society's sounding board for words that feel like shadows?