Poetry by Katherine Fallon, flash fiction by Jason Heroux and Dorthe Nors, a novel by Eshkol Nevo, and an illustrated story by Olga Tokarczuk

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Stone father, I did touch you. First your folded hands, 
which straightened the frothy lace of my childhood 

party dresses . . .  

—From Demoted Planet, a chapbook of poems by Katherine Fallon (Headmistress Press, 2021). This segment is from "Viewing," p. 2. My other favorites from the collection were "Early Adopter" (p. 4, first published in The Shore) and "Otherwise" (p. 21). "Elegy for My Father" (p. 5) first appeared in the Apple Valley Review.

The tour guide showed our group the local sights. He pointed to himself. "I am the tour guide." He pointed overhead. "This is the sky." 
—From "The Tour Guide," published along with "The Snow Removal Truck," two pieces of flash fiction by Jason Heroux, Gone Lawn, Issue 40 (Spring 2021). 

There's a stubble field in front of the rented house. Over by the side of the small wood is the country fairground, trampled and singed. A fox might make its rounds there, but otherwise it's deserted. Her bare feet are stuffed into the clogs she found in the closet.  

—From Wild Swims, a collection of short stories by Dorthe Nors, translated from the Danish by Misha Hoekstra (Graywolf Press, 2021). Originally published in Danish as Kort Over Canada (Copenhagen, Denmark: Gyldendal, 2018). First published in English by Pushkin Press (2020). This segment is from "The Fairground," pp. 47-53.

What I'm trying to tell you is that underneath the surprise, there was something else that Ayelet and I didn't dare talk about, that in the back of our minds we knew—okay, I knew—that it could happen. The signs were there the whole time but we chose to ignore them. What could be more convenient than next-door neighbors who watch your kids for you? Think about it. 

—From Three Floors Up, a novel by Eshkol Nevo, translated from the Hebrew by Sondra Silverston (Other Press, 2017). Originally published in Hebrew as Shalosh Komot (Tel Aviv, Israel: Kinneret Zmora-Bitan, 2015).

If someone could look down on us from above, they'd see that the world is full of people running about in a hurry, sweating and very tired, and their lost souls . . .  

—From The Lost Soul, an illustrated story by Olga Tokarczuk, translated from the Polish by Antonia Lloyd-Jones and illustrated by Joanna Concejo (Seven Stories Press, 2021). Originally published in Polish as Zgubiona dusza (Wrocław, Poland: Wydawnictwo Format, 2017). 

Poetry by Ilya Kaminsky, Katherine Fallon, and Robert Hayden; fiction by Amy Hempel; and an essay by James Marcus

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Inhabitant of earth for fortysomething years 
I once found myself in a peaceful country. . . .  
--From "In a Time of Peace," a poem by Ilya Kaminsky, The New Yorker (February 18 & 25, 2019), pp. 64-65.  "In a Time of Peace"was included in his 2019 collection, Deaf Republic (Graywolf Press).

Milk bones.  Cat food.  Someone else's grandmother's 
stewed tomatoes.  Chocolate covered this, that.
--From "Choke," a poem by Katherine Fallon, which appears on a downloadable broadside from Broadsided Press with artwork by Millian Giang Pham (June 15, 2020).  The link also includes a note on the timing of the publication and a Q&A with the author and artist.

That reminds me of when I knew a romance was over.  I had not seen this fellow in a while, but he suggested we meet up at the train station and take the Acela somewhere, so I thought we'd have several hours to catch up.  And then at the station, we boarded and he led me to our seats in the Quiet Car.  
--From Sing to It, a collection of short fiction by Amy Hempel (Scribner, 2019).  This segment is from "The Quiet Car" (pp. 77-80 in the trade paperback version of the book, which I would recommend over the hardcover purely for the cover art).

Increasingly unsteady even with the walker, he would fall, sometimes knocking over pieces of furniture, creating great crashing sounds that were hard to attribute to such a small, smiling man.  Every time, he got up off the floor--with assistance--and declared that he was fine.  He didn't break an ankle, a hip, a leg, the injuries that so often lead to a death spiral in the elderly.  "You can knock me down, but you can't kill me," he liked to say, dusting himself off. 
--From "Blood Relations," an essay by James Marcus, The New Yorker (March 11, 2019), pp. 34-39.  The piece appeared online with the title "Family Medicine."

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. . . .  
--From "Those Winter Sundays," a poem by Robert Hayden which has been widely anthologized.  (I first read it in 2007 after it was included in the Favorite Poem Project.)  It has also appeared in an earlier form in A Ballad of Remembrance (1962), as well as in its current form in Angle of Ascent: New and Collected Poems (W. W. Norton, 1975) and Collected Poems of Robert Hayden, edited by Frederick Glaysher (Liveright Publishing Corporation, 2013).