Fiction & Poetry

A tiny motor of pleasure had started to hum away inside her, but she was aware, too, of a flash of scorn. How easy it had been to arouse his admiration!

You weighed the future anger of others against the present trouble, and then you pretty much said, O.K. Kick the can down the road.

You couldn’t be certain, in the night, what sort of world the doors might open onto, were you to turn the knob.

So then they did it. And it was pretty incredible—pretty incredible for a first time.

It was the end of the world, and a number of us had gathered in a large, abandoned house.

In the delicious heat, a summer breeze came and they fought as the woman sucked her ice cream through the bottom of her cone.

Maybe there’s still hope for a new morning, for clouds that cluster like ripe grapes which, when squeezed, will release from the heavens the sweet streams of enchanted days.

He heard her crying out in the dark. He couldn’t be sure if it was in sadness or joy or both.

The author discusses her story “Lub Dub Lub Dub Lub Dub.”

The author discusses her story “Hidden Life.”

The author discusses her story “The Blight.”

The author discusses her story “The Promise.”

The author reads her story from the September 7, 2026, issue of the magazine.

The author reads her story from the August 24 & 31, 2026, issue of the magazine.

The author reads her story from the August 10, 2026, issue of the magazine.

The author reads her story from the August 3, 2026, issue of the magazine.

The author joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss “Man-Eating Cats,” which was published in The New Yorker in 2000.

The author joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss “Hostel,” which was published in The New Yorker in 2024.

The author joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss “The Fugitive,” which was published in The New Yorker in 2014.

The author joins Deborah Treisman to read and discuss “Evolution,” which was published in The New Yorker in 2022.

The man from Kabul had warned about the number of men assigned to each room. “I won’t lie to you,” he had said. “You’ll be uncomfortable. You’ll have to adjust.”

It was empty when I logged in. I’d been off it since Vic died, four years ago.

“Of course, Arlette understood, this was not a tragedy. Tragedy would be a broken neck or spine. Paralysis for life. A coma.”

“It’s time to turn up the heat a little bit more. My boys are getting bored, and that’s not good for their appetite or their temper.”

“A priest, a rabbi, and a poet walk into a bar / and we’re laughing already, calculating their clashing philosophies.”

“It is raining, raining, raining. / The sky is falling, falling, falling.”

“All my friends have their gods & their heavens / & their plans on how to get there.”

“We were never a family of food snobs.”

The poet joins Kevin Young to read and discuss “My Great-Grandmother's bible,” by Spencer Reece, and his own poem “The Bats.”

The poet joins Kevin Young to read and discuss “Questions of Travel,” by Elizabeth Bishop, and his own poem “My Father in English.”

The poet joins Kevin Young to read and discuss “I Catch Sight of the Now” by Jorie Graham, and his own poem “Piano Lesson.”

The poet joins Kevin Young to read and discuss “The Schoolroom on the Second Floor of the Knitting Mill,” by Judy Page Heitzman, and her own poem “Mami at Her Vanity.”