Linda Susan Jackson Q&A talks about the most pleasurable aspect of writing
Linda Susan Jackson, author of the chapbooks, Vitelline Blues and A History of Beauty, talks about the the most pleasurable aspect of writing.
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Linda Susan Jackson Q&A talks about her writing time
Linda Susan Jackson, author of the chapbooks, Vitelline Blues and A History of Beauty, talks about her writing time.
Linda Susan Jackson Q&A with some advice for young writers
Linda Susan Jackson, author of the chapbooks, Vitelline Blues and A History of Beauty, with some advice for young writers.
Scientific Inquiry
In the Boston Museum of Science, the girl scouts spend the night, bartering to sleep with the dinosaurs or along the balcony, so that the sun will wake them as it slides through the Harbor. The day before they sleep, the view the night sky in the planetarium’s round room. They learn that stars are […]
Next Door
Quiet next door for days, weeks even, then spring. Windows open, outside a dusty field, thrown jackets, improvised bases, the thwap of baseballs in mitts, the outrage of nine year old umpires shrieking across the diamond, still young enough to resort to weeping, the high moan of wailing unfiltered by the screen. From the church […]
Big Pussy
Because we’re not all a size 6. –maxi pad commercial advertising larger pads for plus-sized women That Haagen Daas went straight to my labia; I’ve superceded “slit” for “fertile crescent.” Little children clutch my nether lips, shake them out like a parachute, air whumpfing around them, tucking themselves under, into the silent red chamber. My […]
Self-Portrait with Cow
I. So, when they ask about the cow, I tell them, yes, someone took a cow, cut a hole in her side and lined it with some kind of rubber or latex, and now people can stick their hands in her side and feel the stomachs churning, gurgling cogs in a milk machine. Penn State […]
Afternoons
Making love in the afternoon stops the world. The clock beside the bed reads a dazzle of broken red lines, vying for completion. The pillows on the floor dare not settle, their feathers suspend inside, a bloat of anticipation. The phone clenches the cradle, willing itself not to ring, and the faucet holds its single […]