Issue 159
Winter & Spring 2021
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The first days of the new year have proven what a naïve oversimplification it was to brand 2020 a bad year. The pandemic rages on, climate crisis still looms, and the continuum of destruction in the United States—one that has existed for centuries—erupted into a violent fascist insurrection. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that at times over the past months putting together a new issue of a literary magazine has felt fruitless and insignificant. I’d also be lying if I didn’t admit it was at times the only work that held me off from complete despair.
As I grow older, my understanding of the political nature and call to action of literature has evolved. I am perhaps less convinced that a singular piece of art can change the world, but also more committed to the belief that if we continue to fight for more equity and inclusivity in American letters, if we strive for systemic changes in academia, creative writing communities, and the publishing industry at large, the arts can have more powerful economic, cultural, and political consequences.
I know these changes can’t happen overnight; nor can they be realized without a coalition of writers, editors, and publishers dedicated to them. As my tenure as managing editor nears its close, I have thought much about TriQuarterly’s future and its role in this effort. My goal is that the journal will continue to grow through critical thinking around our editorial, hiring, and production practices. I am confident in and grateful for the team of editors who will carry TriQuarterly forward after I am gone.
I hope you enjoy the video, poetry, and prose selections in this issue. I hope they collectively offer solace and examination, endurance and outrage, as we push forward into 2021.
Sincerely,
Aram Mrjoian
Managing Editor
Managing Editor: Aram Mrjoian
Assistant Managing Editor: Joshua Bohnsack
Faculty Advisor: Susan Harris
Director of Planning: Reginald Gibbons
Film Editor: Sarah Minor
Fiction Editors: Vanessa Chan, Jennifer Companik, Erin Branning Keogh, Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya, Emily Mirengoff
Nonfiction Editor: Starr Davis
Poetry Editor: Daniel Fliegel
Social Media Editor: Joshua Bohnsack
Copy Editor: Lys Ann Weiss
Media Architect: Harlan Wallach
Technical Advisors: Alex Miner, Rodolfo Vieira, Nick GertonsonStaff: Adam Lizakowski, Andrea Garcia, Audrey Fierberg, Bonnie Etherington, Dane Hamann, Elijah Patten, Ellen Hainen, Erica Hughes, Erika Carey, Freda Love Smith, Grace Musante, Hillary Pelan, Jonathan Jones, Laura Humble, Laura Joyce-Hubbard, Marcella Mencotti, Megan Sullivan, Michele Popadich, Miranda Garbaciak, ML Chan, Myra Thompson, Natalie Rose Richardson, Nimra Chohan, Pascale Bishop, Patrick Bernhard, Rishee Batra, Salwa Halloway, Tara Stringfellow
Image from A Turn
Cowlick
You drove through the city where your mother arrived decades earlier, her clothes tied up in a bedsheet, her Chinese-to-English dictionary dog-eared on the page with your name. You passed fields pearled with people, stopping at a gas station where everyone stared at you, the man in a truck…
The Second Liliosa
Over their twice-monthly pint of Guinness, two friends discover that their babies-to-be, the first for each man, are due only a week apart and that both will be daughters. The fair-haired friend’s happy exultation touches off a series of congratulations from the other patrons; the bartender, who has little girls of his own, serves them several more rounds on the house.
Maps We Leave Behind
I hear chains as they approach. There are other rez boys around, so I know I will pay for staring, but I stare. Boys like us are bloodied here. Boys like Micah and me.
Lucy Lucy Lucy
When Angela cornered Lucy in the girls’ locker room and said, “White girl!” there was a moment when Lucy wanted to tell her how she wasn’t white or black, only the perfect mix of both, which is what her father liked to say. Instead, she turned away as her mother had taught her. Her mother would say, “Don’t fight. Be better than those petty girls, baby.”
小心 [Little Heart]
The Café Delice menu was just big enough to hide Rosemary’s face if she ducked down. She had made sure to sit with her back to the window, so that the afternoon sun fell directly on her quarry: the late middle-aged couple sitting two tables in front of her.
Yamaha TX 500
Sometimes, I throw a light on my bloody history and see myself running through the street of my childhood. Sweat and water dripping from head to toe while my body cruises through space and time with great speed, and passion tingling down my hollowed soul. I ran toward the cathedral.
The Wrecking Ball
The thump rocked the concrete walls of Helene’s grocery shop, unleashing echoes from her years living at Prospect Manor, a low-income apartment complex in Oakland, California. There, youths had haunted the basketball grounds at all hours, seemingly drawing energy from dribbles on the cracked asphalt, which harbored in its crevices ancient gum and cigarette butts.
Water in the Blood
There’s something in the woods behind the house. Laura can hear it through the open window underneath the patter of rain as she nurses the baby. The thud of paws against the ground.