{"id":786,"date":"2015-08-18T14:04:23","date_gmt":"2015-08-18T18:04:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/?page_id=786"},"modified":"2016-10-03T11:35:05","modified_gmt":"2016-10-03T15:35:05","slug":"current-issue","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/current-issue\/","title":{"rendered":"236.6"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"cover\"<\/a>Poetry: Luisa Caycedo-Kimura<\/h2>\n

Cartagena Sunrise–April 2009<\/em><\/p>\n

The guitars finally hushed their trebled
\nchords over the sand. Accordions rested
\ntheir bellows. Even the twelve-year-old
\nboys stored away their peddler chants (more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Lemons and Peppers<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/address>\n

Lemons are yellow and round today.\u00a0 Not oval like the rants that screw our minds
\nto surface in jealous rages. In Colombia
\nall were limones<\/em>–yellow or green (more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Poetry: Renee Emerson<\/h2>\n
I Take the Kitchen Scissors to the Double-Stroller<\/address>\n

slice along the plaid print, trace with blade the baby-pink grid. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Snowmaggedon<\/em><\/p>\n

If you ask the locals, ground warmth makes a snow dangerous in North Georgia, where even the man-poured asphalt doesn’t know when to forgive its commitment to each and every sun-soaked day.\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Fiction: Leah Griesmann<\/h2>\n
The Slave<\/address>\n

Three-thousand-dollars? It seemed exorbitant, even for a work of, what was it, Meso-American era Nahuatl pottery? \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Poetry: Lisa Hiton<\/h2>\n
Moon Child<\/address>\n

Like living inside an angiogram, I remember the womb:<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 blood vessels illumined, eellike, hot to the touch. <\/span>(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Afterfeast<\/em><\/p>\n

There is a deep-sea fish with two stones in its head. When you eat it, if you only find one stone, you\u2019ve killed the fish too soon. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Fiction: Saskya Jain<\/h2>\n
Chapter Two from\u00a0Fire Under Ash<\/em><\/address>\n

The prayer mark his mother pressed on to his forehead with the tip of her middle finger had dried on his skin as a heavy drop. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Poetry: Abriana Jett\u00e9<\/h2>\n
The\u00a0Women\u00a0<\/address>\n

It was the butcher who got me
\nthinking, after he kissed mom
\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0on the cheek, …\u00a0<\/span>(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Commute<\/em><\/p>\n

Day drags between stops. Doors<\/span>
\najar; gray shoes. Shut: black<\/span>
\nsuits.\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

Featured Faculty Member: Karl Kirchwey<\/h2>\n
Ocean Grove<\/address>\n

The onshore breeze this morning arrives unopposed
\nsince Portugal and the Azores.\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

TWO TRANSLATIONS<\/p>\n

1. The Owls<\/em><\/p>\n

Under the black yews that shelter them,
\nall in a row the owls wait
\nlike foreign gods on a tympanum,
\nand dart their red looks. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

2. The Garden<\/em>
\nIn what garden forever watered and blessed, where,
\non what trees, from what calyces stripped and tender,
\ndoes the strange fruit of comfort ripen? \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Poetry: Aviya Kushner<\/h2>\n

Highway<\/em><\/p>\n

Driving in the fast line, the left lane,
\nI finally understand
\nwhat it is to say \u201cif I forget thee O Jerusalem
\nlet me lose my right hand…\u201d\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Ancient Hebrew<\/em><\/p>\n

How close the villain is to the harp!
\nTwo vowels separate them, just as two small
\nletters separate the harp from the generous. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Poetry: Calvin Olsen<\/h2>\n
Territory<\/address>\n

The owl\u2019s eyes are perfect<\/p>\n

circles the color of hay<\/p>\n

almost ready for harvest<\/p>\n

but backlit…\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/address>\n
<\/address>\n
I Wish the Moon<\/em><\/address>\n

I wish I was the moon.
\nI wish you were the moon.\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Fiction: Laina Pruett<\/h2>\n
The\u00a0Last Con<\/address>\n

Collectables were not Clyde\u2019s primary area of interest, so he quickly walked past the first aisle of booths at the UberMegaCon Pop Culture Spectacular. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Fiction: Patricia Robertson<\/h2>\n
The Calligrapher’s Daughter<\/address>\n

It was the fourth day of Ramadan and the calligrapher\u2019s daughter sat, as she always did, with her qalams <\/em>of sharpened reed, her inks of soot and copper sulphate bound with wine, her burnished paper. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Fiction: Shubha Sunder<\/h2>\n
The Western Tailor<\/address>\n

At seven o\u2019clock Ramesh turns off the sewing machine, slings his leather bag over his shoulder, and says his customary good-bye to his boss, Parul. (more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Essay: Tomas Unger<\/h2>\n

Listening Now Again: On Seamus Heaney
\nIt is now two years since Seamus Heaney died. To certain of his younger readers\u2014say, those who might have discovered \u201cDigging\u201d in a high school class, and gone further, until they couldn\u2019t \u201cremember never having known\u201d the ground this poet opened, and made familiar, and made loved\u2014this loss was the first of its kind.\u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Poetry: Anna Ziering<\/h2>\n
Please\u00a0<\/address>\n

In my dreams, you are faceless,
\nblank space lightly shaded.
\nI would sculpt you, red clay
\ndug from riverbanks. Terra cotta,
\nsmall warrior, to fit
\nbetween my fingers like a charm. \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n

Litany<\/em><\/p>\n

Like ice, fright,
\ndishes smashed
\non the counter<\/p>\n

old bruises at night,
\nswiped-away
\ncobwebs, bricks… \u00a0(more…)<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Poetry: Luisa Caycedo-Kimura Cartagena Sunrise–April 2009 The guitars finally hushed their trebled chords over the sand. Accordions rested their bellows. Even the twelve-year-old boys stored away their peddler chants (more…) Lemons and Peppers Lemons are yellow and round today.\u00a0 Not oval like the rants that screw our minds to surface in jealous rages. In Colombia […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8422,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":4,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/786"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/8422"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=786"}],"version-history":[{"count":27,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/786\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":992,"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/786\/revisions\/992"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.bu.edu\/236magazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=786"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}