Cody-Rose Clevidence’s Aux Arc Trypt Ich is a book of three books, a standout achievement in the poet’s relatively brief career of un-relatively prolific output—in addition to two chapbooks, the triptych is the author’s fourth full-length collection, and their third since 2018.

For climate archaeologists, collecting core samples from arctic ice offers a look back in time and a glimpse into an uncertain future.

Cookie Mueller was a writer and artist of many persuasions.

Diane Wilson’s The Seed Keeper is prefaced with the poem “The Seeds Speak,” told from the perspective of stored seeds.

Christine Hume’s experimental autobiography Saturation Project is about the dissolving of its subject—or maybe, even, The Subject.

In Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes states that human life is “nasty, brutal, and short” because people, left to their own devices, are naturally vicious.

“There’s a long version and a short version of how I lost all my money,” says Michael Mixner, the male protagonist in Adam Wilson’s Sensation Machines, 44 pages into the author’s latest novel.

It’s 2 a.m. in a small enclave of American refugees living abroad.

I’m writing this in a plane flying south over California, from San Francisco, where I grew up, to Santa Barbara, where I attend grad school.

Paradais, Fernanda Melchor’s second book translated into English, opens with two teenage boys drinking rum outside a luxury housing development.

Brooke Sahni’s debut poetry collection, Before I Had the Word, chosen by Maggie Smith as the Winner of the 2020 X. J. Kennedy Poetry Prize, explores generational ties to grief, sex, family, and religion.

The first time I saw an image of William Sommer’s “Winter Landscape” painting, I was doing something unmemorable online; but I remembered the moment I saw it perhaps even more than I remembered the painting itself because it so strongly evoked the view from my childhood bedroom window.

When readers need to know a century’s worth of history to comprehend a novel’s dynamics, a fiction writer confronts a task that may appear simple but is actually excruciatingly difficult.

Irene Solà’s novel When I Sing, Mountains Dance starts with a storm personified and a person disembodied.

Where are the great climate novels?

Matvei Yankelevich’s new collection Dead Winter draws its poems from a longer sequence, still in progress, whose overall title is “From A Winter Notebook.”

Sentences that might represent a life-altering pain, the ongoing experience of that pain, are not the tragedy itself.

Every funeral is a hole.

Before bedtime, in their two-room apartment on the outskirts of postwar Tokyo, my great-grandfather would tell my obāchan and her siblings ghost stories, like those retold in Aoko Matsuda’s short story collection, Where the Wild Ladies Are.

Nicky Beer begins her newest poetry collection Real Phonies and Genuine Fakes with an epigraph from Bjork: Don’t let poets lie to you.