MQR 55:2 – Michigan Quarterly Review

MQR 55:2

Tarfia Faizullah’s “I Told the Water” Selected for Pushcart Anthology

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We’re proud and excited to announce that Tarfia Faizullah’s poem “I Told the Water” has been selected for inclusion in Pushcart Prize XLII. “I Told the Water” appeared in the Spring 2016 issue of MQR as part of the “Flint and Beyond” special section.

Tarfia Faizullah’s “I Told the Water” Selected for Pushcart Anthology Read More »

We’re proud and excited to announce that Tarfia Faizullah’s poem “I Told the Water” has been selected for inclusion in Pushcart Prize XLII. “I Told the Water” appeared in the Spring 2016 issue of MQR as part of the “Flint and Beyond” special section.

“Pheasants of Detroit,” by Matthew Baker

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Every night, I built a blind in the field from heaped tires, shot pheasants from there. I’d found the rifle at the abandoned shooting range. It was an air gun, fired pellets with hollow points that left holes the shape of keyholes in the targets. So far I had killed two pheasants and, accidentally, one squirrel. I had never seen another person. Squatters occupied the other abandoned warehouses, but squatters avoided the warehouse in the field.

“Pheasants of Detroit,” by Matthew Baker Read More »

Every night, I built a blind in the field from heaped tires, shot pheasants from there. I’d found the rifle at the abandoned shooting range. It was an air gun, fired pellets with hollow points that left holes the shape of keyholes in the targets. So far I had killed two pheasants and, accidentally, one squirrel. I had never seen another person. Squatters occupied the other abandoned warehouses, but squatters avoided the warehouse in the field.

“The End of Whispering,” by Zhanna Slor

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My very first memory is about being alone. I’m one or two years old, and I’ve just woken up from a nap. It’s pitch black, and I’m standing in a creaky wooden crib, holding the bars, looking out into the small, windowless room of our apartment on Kobylanskaya Street.

“The End of Whispering,” by Zhanna Slor Read More »

My very first memory is about being alone. I’m one or two years old, and I’ve just woken up from a nap. It’s pitch black, and I’m standing in a creaky wooden crib, holding the bars, looking out into the small, windowless room of our apartment on Kobylanskaya Street.

“Blood and Water,” by Kelsey Ronan

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When my mother fell ill during the Flint water crisis, I drove five hundred miles from Saint Louis, my new home. My mother had been among the skeptics when in April 2014 the city switched its water source from Detroit’s system to the Flint River in an alleged effort to save money.

“Blood and Water,” by Kelsey Ronan Read More »

When my mother fell ill during the Flint water crisis, I drove five hundred miles from Saint Louis, my new home. My mother had been among the skeptics when in April 2014 the city switched its water source from Detroit’s system to the Flint River in an alleged effort to save money.

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