Author: ndquarterly


Baby Jessica Walsh She met a man who was really a cursed spindle in a barn no one had checked She faded into a farmhouse thinned to brittle bought chickens and called them all baby Her back her nerves her skin burn a bonfire in between the charms he mixed

Upon Retirement

Upon Retirement Jessica Walsh Tumble shine my bones, articulate me in the anatomy lab where all who used my name may scrape wrist and rib seek heart shell smell ghosted marrow tap my sternum as if to listen for my permission thrumming low down bones steer my jaw around what

Transnational Poetry in Practice: Indigenous Poetry and Snichimal Vayuchil

On Thursday April 12, Western Carolina University partnered with indigenous poets from North Carolina and Mexico to host a Transnational Indigenous Poetry event. WCU welcomed Kimberly L Becker, a poet of mixed Cherokee, Celtic, and Teutonic descent, and was joined through video calling with the Tsotsil Maya Collective Snichimal Vayuchil.

As Venus Stations Retrograde

As Venus Stations Retrograde Wendy Chin-Tanner silver moon sliver spoon kindness of slow summer dawn who blooms unfurling susurrus shredding night shedding darkness rising up she stares at mother’s face great dark sky her skin flecked with stars ~ Wendy Chin-Tanner is the author of the poetry collection Turn (Sibling

The Problem of the Teacher

As the second installment in our North Dakota Quarterly Reader, I offer this short essay from the inaugural issue of the Quarterly in 1910: “The Problem of the Teacher.” The talk was delivered by Luther C. Freedman of Morningside College in Iowa after Albert Ross Hill, President of the University


Filigree Wendy Chin-Tanner Orion’s bright daughter Capella visible now Chiron’s in Pisces full circle of winter stars again circling it will not stop breath of wood leaf rot rock the rushing water cold wisps of day light cobwebs in her hair ~ Wendy Chin-Tanner is the author of the poetry

Letter from the Snowfields

Letter from the Snowfields Cody Deitz It came from out across the fields before the sun, the fog like whipping cream into water— a coyote calling out who in its rising melancholy yowl. My eyes pulled to the field from where it came— crop rows worked into lines bending ’round

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