The Muse: A Journal of Creative and Critical Writing of the Department of English and
I hear the sound of guns firing away somewhere in a distance. Shouts, rising and
The Muse Board is proud to celebrate it’s immediate past editor, Chetachi Igbokwe, who has
The dogs can’t take pictures, so I quickly ask: “Is there anyone in the house, ma’am? I want pictures taken.” She laughs and gets up. “No, she says. But I can help you. No one can live with me. I am a mad woman. She returns with her phone and says, “Let’s take a picture. What do you call it? Selfie?”
I laugh and say, “Yes, selfie!”
Two yearsThat is the time that has passedbetween us * TodayI am sitting against your
I stretch out on my bed, a bed that was his that semester. Funny how life plays us farther than we can endure. I ended up getting this bed space this semester of my second year. Every night I lay face up and cry. I ponder on why he did it and I feel like the worst person that could ever be. Why was I so blind to see that his depression had eaten so much into him?
“I breathe here
But nothing takes my breath away
I live here
But my heart is far away”
Is it just us or who else feels this weight of longing– “I miss the gasp at a power failure/ I miss the glee at its restoration”! Look how poetry shapeshifts into music and the two take one form through rhythm and repetition.
Exciting news on Thursday as the Swedish Academy names Retired Professor Emeritus of Post-colonial Literature,
Swinging Party Today I swungalongside an empty swing swaying in reverse motions so when I
You are the bone of my bone and the flesh of my flesh. I shall