Editor’s Note: What follows is composed from features published in The New Yorker between September and December 2010. No alterations beyond rearrangement were made to the texts, excepting those that ensured gender, tense and number agreement.
When one thinks of a ‘game,’ hears its notes playing and effects sounding, Like a pot smashing or a brick bashing, When one smells a game, The cellophane of a case, or the rubber of an analog stick, When one … Read More
Ava Adelaja’s poem was a finalist for the 2025 Nassau Weekly Poetry Competition. SURROGATE For Pamela (Mimi) I. Her hair’s somewhat intact, ruddy clumps on the skin, hanging like the sanguine bush-berries you’re not supposed to eat, tempting. … Read More
the sun sets its sorry self behind the dining hall & the clouds above the roof are pink like gently-used gauze. i close my eyes and try to remember how it feels when things are beautiful. on the widow’s walk … Read More
