Winter 2011 – Michigan Quarterly Review

Winter 2011

“The Brawl and the Tango,” by Michael Reid Busk

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The No Coast Derby Girls skate at Pershing Auditorium in downtown Lincoln, fifteen hundred miles from the Pacific, eleven hundred from the Atlantic, and two blocks from the Nebraska State Capitol, a domed sandstone tower locals call, with a mixture of affection and scorn.

“The Brawl and the Tango,” by Michael Reid Busk Read More »

The No Coast Derby Girls skate at Pershing Auditorium in downtown Lincoln, fifteen hundred miles from the Pacific, eleven hundred from the Atlantic, and two blocks from the Nebraska State Capitol, a domed sandstone tower locals call, with a mixture of affection and scorn.

MQR 50:1 | Winter 2011

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Michael Reid Busk on the roller derby, Berel Lang on replenishing the world, Eugene Goodheart on Darwinian hubris, Ismail Kadare on dictatorship, Miah Arnold on teaching writing to children with terminal cancer, Laurence Goldstein on the poetry of Charles Harper Webb, Maxine Kumin, and Edward Hirsch.

Poetry by Francine Harris, Gwyneth Lewis, Susanna Mishler, Allison Peters, and Michael Peterson.

Fiction by Lucy Ferriss, Kuzhali Manickavel, and Rachel May.

MQR 50:1 | Winter 2011 Read More »

Michael Reid Busk on the roller derby, Berel Lang on replenishing the world, Eugene Goodheart on Darwinian hubris, Ismail Kadare on dictatorship, Miah Arnold on teaching writing to children with terminal cancer, Laurence Goldstein on the poetry of Charles Harper Webb, Maxine Kumin, and Edward Hirsch.

Poetry by Francine Harris, Gwyneth Lewis, Susanna Mishler, Allison Peters, and Michael Peterson.

Fiction by Lucy Ferriss, Kuzhali Manickavel, and Rachel May.

“The Underground Bird Sanctuary,” by Kuzhali Manickavel

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Kumar’s bones were pushing up under his skin like silent hills. His ribs rippled up in hardened waves while his shoulders and wrists stood out in knotted clumps. In the afternoons, I would count Kumar’s bones while he tried to sleep.

“You’re counting the same one twice,” he would mumble without opening his eyes.

“Well it’s poking up in two places. A lot of them are.”

“The Underground Bird Sanctuary,” by Kuzhali Manickavel Read More »

Kumar’s bones were pushing up under his skin like silent hills. His ribs rippled up in hardened waves while his shoulders and wrists stood out in knotted clumps. In the afternoons, I would count Kumar’s bones while he tried to sleep.

“You’re counting the same one twice,” he would mumble without opening his eyes.

“Well it’s poking up in two places. A lot of them are.”

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