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Volume 60: 2021


  • Black Bread
    Why I Chose It: Michigan Quarterly Review reader Julie Cadman-Kim introduces Dounia Choukri’s “Black Bread” from our Summer 2021 issue. You can purchase it here. “If difference has a taste, then it’s rich and earthy.” So begins “Black Bread,” Dounia Choukri’s haunting short story, set
  • Tubarão
    Dudu coughs a little harder, the way his dad has coughed since the flight. A cough he thinks his uncles would cough after their cigars, fiercer than the coughs he has mastered at his school’s nurse’s office.
  • Meet Our Contributors: Issue 60:3 Summer 2021
    FARAH ALI is from Pakistan. Her work has been anthologized in the 2020 Pushcart Prize as well as received special mention in the 2018 Pushcart anthol- ogy. Her stories have appeared in Shenandoah, The Arkansas International, The Southern Review, Kenyon Review online, Copper Nickel, Ecotone,
  • MQR Issue 60:3, Summer 2021
    Announcing the release of MQR 60:3, Our Summer Fiction Issue Cover art by Eduardo Paolozzi, courtesy of UMMA and Diane Kirkpatrick Table of Contents Forward Polly Rosenwaike: Closer Fiction Farah Ali: Beautiful Felipe Bomeny: Tubarão Dounia Choukri: Black Bread Ye Chun: Anchor Baby Susan Muaddi
  • My Windshield Saga (Version 8 Because Every Time I Write A Draft the Damage is Worse Than the Estimate)
    Hit play below to hear Johnna St Cyr read her poem “My Windshield Saga (Version 8 Because Every Time I Write A Draft the Damage is Worse Than the Estimate)”  and scroll down for the full text. “My Windshield Saga (Version 8 Because Every Time I Write
  • Why I Stopped Watering the Plants
    Why I Chose It: Michigan Quarterly Review reader Abigail McFee introduces Kristene Kaye Brown’s “Why I Stopped Watering the Plants” from our Spring 2021 issue. You can purchase it here. “A body that hungers is a body that hopes,” begins Kristene Kaye Brown’s “Why I Stopped Watering the
  • Lifting the Page: Lesson Plans from MQR’s Anniversary Issue
    A poet is a time mechanic not an embalmer.
  • The Year I Was A Boy
    I’m not sure how much I was aware of my intention to become a boy. I never verbalized it, and I knew it wasn’t something that was actually possible. I just wanted to be more of a boy than I was a girl. I’m not sure I understand gender very well, even as an adult woman, but as a child, all I saw was that, in a literal way, boys had it better.
  • Couplets by Ghalib
    But we could never escape the weight of those final weeks in Dhaka, what we had lost and what we had faced. We couldn’t forget my father’s blank expression before he left our flat for the last time, in search of supplies the day the war ended, nor the barbaric shrieks and shots that resounded through the window during the riot that ensued. We couldn’t forget the dark and bloated bodies on the road, or my own mother’s choking sobs, screaming my father’s name as we searched. In Calcutta, these memories enveloped us with tension as tangible as the white cloth we had placed over our father, after we found him a few streets from our building, already smelling of rot. Now, as I slashed Faisal’s ping-pong paddle like a boy, I felt this shroud beginning to unravel.
  • Crow
    “D— bleeds in the living room. They mew his ghost up. “