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by Anne Carson 5/5 Autobiography of Red was my first ever Anne Carson read–I’ve never even read any of her standalone poems until now! I thought this book was gorgeous and completely different from anything else I’ve read. Carson’s epic poem tells the magical, and at times, haunting story of Geryon. As he grows, he experiences trauma, infatuation, and heartbreak as he comes to terms with what it means to be red. I feel like I should have more to say about a book I loved so much, but there’s just nothing else to be said. It was perfect.
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Carbon monoxide poisoning in the public library parking garage — $5 an hour.Anything to relieve the August heat. It’s better than fighting crowds forfreezing springs, spreading like salamanders on algae-ridden rocks. dying grass shores are a bed to stretch catlike and tan our backs beside theonly overpriced tourist destination I still visit alone in this place, where cost and heat rise in unison. The warmer the climate, the steeper the rent. The truth is, I don’t remember the time before. I can’t explain whythe summers sear memory more than skin, or why we suffer so much just to pay ourdues to the Capitol…
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by Destiny O. Birdsong your therapist wants to know where in your body you most feel your anxiety. you tell her in the bones behind your face. they have their own music, like ptolemy’s universe, and chirp like shuriken dancing in the road. your therapist says you hurt because there are things you’ve never been taught to do: how to hold yourself in sleep. how to drive. how to live with men. back when you were five—or maybe four— your father knelt before you for the last time, close enough that you could smell him, a zephyr of kool’s filter…
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by Ruth Ozeki 4/5 As the last book I read in 2025, The Book of Form and Emptiness perfectly tied up my year in literature. I’ve been interested in exploring magical realism more, and while I’m not sure this novel would technically fall under this description, it was certainly magical, and a few times more realistic than I was emotionally prepared for. The book’s narrator is the book itself, that is to say, Book, as a sentient character. I loved the ambiguity between magic, psychic powers, and psychosis, and I especially loved the fact that distinguishing between the three is…
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From the highest point on the hill, Charlotte could see something glinting gold in the sunlight—about 50 feet away, at the foot of a large rock. She inched down the gravelly slope. The object was a ring, gold, with a single empty facet on the front, which Charlotte knew from her books and the occasional movie was where a stone would have gone. Maybe a diamond, she thought. On the inside of the ring was inscribed: To Shyanne, my love 10/15/2025. Charlotte’s stomach rumbled, and she pocketed the ring and went inside. The dinner bell rang at 7:03. Miss Suzie,…
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by Mary Ruefle You grow old.You love everybody.You forgive everyone.You think: we are all leavesdragged along by a wheel.Then comes a splendid spottedyellow one—ah, distinction! And in that momentyou are dragged under.
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by Akwaeke Emezi 4/5 I recently read Akwaeke Emezi’s poetry for the first time and loved it, so it’s no surprise I was a fan of their prose, too. Little Rot is intense, fast-paced, and filled with surprising twists and turns. I read it for a book club, and we all agreed that it would make a riveting action film should a screenwriter decide to tackle an adaptation. The plot of the novel takes place over the span of slightly more than 24 hours. For a piece that includes so many alternating characters and viewpoints, it’s surprisingly intricate and detailed…
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A shotgun in the backyard silences the barking. Don’t misunderstand me, the man has not shot his dog. In the morning, when the man wakes, the bitch will be gone, her only trace the holes she chewed in his once-brand-new suede leather boots. The other dogs will howl until they tire of the raucous and return to lick the man’s bare feet while he weeps. The man, who will witness the great return. The man, who only cries when he’s not alone. The man, who forgets he was something else first. He prays for the end…
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by KB Brookins In the beginning, heaven begat earth & earthbegat Sunday. For this one, I’m sitting in a desk chaircrafted by hands, all somewhere unawarethat they’re now touching bare skin. Thisis all the proof I needed, but I’m feeling generouswith language, so I’ll try to make this quick: in the dreams of my dearest enemies, I am kissing dirthandled by a million years of fertilizer & deadskin in a casket made by the son of someone or a sibling that was loved by many. Everything that existshas a birthstory. Some days, I touch mud just to high-fivethe humans that willed it.…
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by Mona Awad After reading most of Mona Awad’s repertoire and discussing them with friends, I’ve come to the conclusion that whether or not someone likes one of her books depends primarily on how much they connect to the situations being satirized. I have friends who are obsessed with Bunny, who thought All’s Well was boring as hell, and who love the fairytale-style of Rouge. Personally, I don’t like Awad’s writing style in general but I am intrigued by her method of choosing niche, personal subject matter that’s almost akin to telling an inside joke—if you get it, you get…
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Emily Vance Brown 