An author, professor, and mother, Christman worries about many things, “but mostly,” she writes, “I worry about the physical safety of my kids. All the time.”

The best story in Barbara Molinard's book Panics, and the one which establishes the thematic thread binding all the others together into a cohesive collection, is the author's own, which Marguerite Duras explains in the book’s preface.

For a debut novel, Courtney Denelle’s It’s Not Nothing embraces a remarkable degree of risk. Voice and a highly internal focus drive the fragmented narrative.

Early in Rebecca van Laer’s debut novella, our protagonist, Charlotte, states, “I have been wondering for a long time what to do about my poetry.”

In her new poetry chapbook L(eye)ght, Jessica Kim explores the power of the eye as it relates to the body and perceptions of identity.

When books aren’t melodramatically losing ground to the digital realm, they’re beckoning us inside their logical leaps and syntactic slides in Jefferson Navicky’s defiant Antique Densities.

“Ten years from now I will think of Texas as the end of girlhood,” writes Jenny Irish in the closing poem of Tooth Box. This end encapsulates the constant question Irish asks the reader throughout the collection: where were you when everything changed?

In David Greenspan’s One Person Holds So Much Silence, a migration occurs in two dimensions.

ne of the challenges of writing about Aaron Angello’s The Fact of Memory is trying to categorize it. As the author explains in the introductory note, he tasked himself with writing a prose poem a day meditating on each word of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 29.”

For all the in-your-face judgment of the title, it's not a judgment. We are all fallible, deeply flawed, and perhaps doomed — we are both the turtles of Barnegat Bay and the predatory forces of extinction.

Kristin Bock’s Glass Bikini, a dreamlike (often nightmarish) examination of contemporary life, serves truth wrapped in whimsy, wonder, horror, and perversion, a perfect pairing for contemporary, post-satire reality.

For Beckett fans, this play is as if his two tragicomic acts were squeezed into one. Indeed, there are Vladimir and Estragon equivalents—though they are now women named Eliquis and Abigatra—and there is a lifeless tree in the form of an x-ray machine.

There are ghosts in the room. Every room. They’re in the eaves in the attic, the crawlspaces in the basement, the living room, the kitchen, the den.

The Kissing of Kissing is a bodymind-in-motion. With Kissing, Emerson, a nonspeaking autistic artist and poet, inaugurates Milkweed’s Multiverse series, which will center neuroqueer orientations in relation to writing (and) the world.

There are basically two easy ways to light me up with a short story: A) make it about something that fascinates you, like egyptology or how microwaves work or competitive baton-twirling, and then B) escalate the hell out of it.

As a poet, you know when you’ve touched the right voice(s). With practice, Voice comes to the table more and more often. It wants to be fed. I like it when you can tell a poet’s voice is fat from writing.

“The Internet is not your friend—you shouldn’t let it tend to you so soon.“

I usually am drawn to narrative poetry that almost feels like listening to a good song. Also, if I see something formally or visually unique and striking, it definitely stands out to me.

In the seven stories in Because We Were Christian Girls, Virgie Townsend’s young characters walk the tightrope of faith above the pit of eternal damnation: millennial popular culture. Through their eyes, Townsend blurs the lines between church and the secular world and casts doubt on the very existence of hell.

Thunderhead features lyrical narrative poetry that reveals the darker side of Emily Rose Cole’s upbringing and present-day struggle to reconcile trauma. This trauma stems largely from a verbally abusive mother, now deceased. Cole employs persona poems as well, forming striking parallels between her past and the lives of imaginary heroines, most notably Dorothy Gale from The Wizard of Oz.