Drawing inspiration from her dreamscapes, Southern roots, and the innovative rhythms and structures of Americana music, Lauren Moseley has crafted a sensual and provocative collection of poems that invites us to reevaluate the connection between our inner and outer worlds. Her debut, Big Windows, which Carnegie Mellon University Press released in February of 2018, has surfaced at a time when humanity is confronting an onslaught of social unrest, political upheaval, and aesthetic bankruptcy that often distracts us from the ecstasy we might otherwise find by tuning into our immediate environment. Each poem in this collection is a progression through the stages of disillusionment, humility, wonder, and ultimately, enlightenment.
Moseley’s writing challenges readers to reinstate the practice of observing what the French writer, George Perec, refers to as, the infraordinary—the seemingly trivial and yet intrinsically beautiful objects and events of the everyday.…
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The floors have been mopped with vinegar and hot water, so there is nothing left from before this moment to provide me with a steady sense of origin. I’ve been showered and soaked and scrubbed with tea tree oil so anything that “I remember” can be excused as only confusion because how could I possibly? There is no proof.
But I’m not wrong. With the bugs as my witnesses, I’m pretty sure I’m not wrong.
It was early afternoon, and it was the end of a scheduled meeting that we made to end all contact. You stood near the door procrastinating, but for nothing sentimental.
“Can you think of what I’m forgetting?”
Yeah, maybe. Is it the way I slept in a full bathtub so that I could be deep-in and not left-out, whether of a blanket or an arm or even warm water?…
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A week after our wedding, Philip and I fell asleep on opposite sides of our bed. He was troubled by the needling realities of living with me. Having our backs to each other felt unnatural. Shimmying over and forcing a cuddle was odd. Thus began the real work of marriage, the little things.
It was September. The previous Saturday we wrapped up our two-year, long-distance relationship with a shotgun wedding. Philip was my college buddy, a Southerner with a ski jacket in a sea of peacoats. I was a girl from the Northwest whose anklet jingled as I struggled to keep up with New Yorkers.
After graduation, Philip and I kissed for the first time. Little did we know, twenty-eight months later I would field phone calls from his mother asking if a tea-length dress was appropriate for an afternoon wedding and if she should throw Philip’s old crib into the U-haul.…
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Hot air balloons can only crash—
it took me fifteen years and five thousand
miles to watch nylon
candies en flambé
fall like parade castoffs
from the sky. In open fields, hands
sticky with crepe drippings, the lot of us
craned our necks and clutched our phones
waiting with hungry impatience
for the cascade of exquisite collisions.
– Jessica Mehta…
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He reaches for his notebook. Last night I was in the desert with mice who grew wings. What a wild ride. To be decoded later. He wakes when there’s no sunlight left, not even a hint, choosing to use only five out of the twenty-‐four hours available. My life, my rules. He opens his wardrobe. His uniform resembles that of a magicians. But he’s a waiter, of sorts, at a chicken restaurant. The golden blade sits in a closed box on the table. Tonight, he counts to five before opening it. The longer he waits the better it feels. The sight sends shivers through his veins. Good shivers. The kind you can recall months later. The blade, it’s for the chickens in case you were wondering.…
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Nina Murray is a poet and a literary translator, as well as a U.S. diplomat. She grew up in Ukraine and have degrees in linguistics and creative writing. Her debut poetry book, Minimize Considered, was just published by Finishing Line Press and her individual work and translations can be found in a number of venues.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum speaks with Murray about her latest poetry collection, the ups and downs of being a professional translator, journal guidelines, and more (including a live reading of her poem “George Washington’s Rules of Civility”).
– Nina Murray…
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His phone got up to six missed calls right before it died. All from Mom and none from Paul.
The whole time he had been sitting at McDonald’s dipping fries in his McFlurry it could have been charging. He didn’t want to wait now. He didn’t think he needed to. He just had to get back on the highway and drive in an hour-long straight line and then he’d see his brother. If he got a little lost it would be a relief.
But he didn’t get lost. He put his new shoe against the gas pedal of his old car, Paul’s old car, and barely moved it until the corn turned to trees. He should have taken it slower. The empty roads were just so tempting.…
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