Issue 152
Summer & Fall 2017
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Welcome to TriQuarterly 152. We open with three video essays selected by our guest curator, Sarah Minor, exploring how fragments reveal stories from the space of which they were part. In Annelyse Gelman's "Body with No Windows," fragmented images suggest viewing one's own story through glimpses of another's. This idea is explored further in Miranda Schmidt's "Skin," where a son views his mother as a mythological creature and sees his life in that framework. Essayist Deborah Siegel looks at the mother-child relationship from the other perspective in "Thirteen Ways of Looking at Boy/Girl Twins," and poet Alison C. Rollins takes yet another visual approach in "Develop the Negatives." Furthermore, Driss Ksikes portrays a character who performs a monologue that is fragments of familial relationships in "Fuckin' Family" while Kerry Neville looks at a father and son who pick up fragments of abandonment in "The Assassin of Bucharest." We hope you'll find that these and the other pieces here combine for a remarkable whole and a memorable issue.
Cheers,
Noelle Havens-Afolabi
Managing Editor: Noelle Havens-Afolabi
Assistant Managing Editor: Carrie Muehle
Faculty Advisor: Susan Harris
Director of Planning: Reginald Gibbons
Film Editor: Sarah Minor
Fiction Editors: Aram Mrjoian, Carrie Muehle, Marina Mularz, Stephanie Tran
Nonfiction Editor: Martha Holloway
Poetry Editor: Dane Hamann
Social Media Editor: Ankur Thakkar
Copy Editor: Lys Ann Weiss
Media Architect: Harlan Wallach
Technical Advisors: Alex Miner, Rodolfo Vieira, Nick Gertonson
Staff: Aaron DeLee, Adam Lizakowski, Ahsan Awan, Andrea Garcia, Bonnie Etherington, Caitlin Sellnow, Dan Fliegel, Devin O'Shea, Emily Barton, Hillary Pelan, James Berg, Jen Lawrence, Jennifer Companik, Katie Hartsock, Michi Smith, Marla Weeg, Megan Sullivan, Molly Sprayregen, Myra Thompson, Nathan Renie, Pascale Bishop, Paula Root, Sara Connell, Tara Stringfellow.
Image from It is an Intensely Private Experience
Orpheus in the Lost Amphitheater
When I emerged, it was dusk & I learned that this too is hell,
an afterlife, the center of a lost amphitheater whose seats
are a deep moss, wet-black with yesterday’s rain. As I faced west,
the sun, obscured by the pines, shone in the gaps, pulsed