Critics PageApril 2026

from “Coronary Artist”

Custom has it that a woman gets up first to solve the dilemma of the burning moment.

You can smell the smoke answering the alarm.

And then you can’t smell anything over the family soundtrack, putting everything on
hold. One becomes an adult without knowing the details of how it was done, knowing
only which team you’re on, which hat corresponds to your glands.

Already this is an extinct culture, a culture of giants prone to the vertigo of silent
agreements and unenforceable contracts. The rocks in our beds belong to them. Their
sexual politics get the better of us sometimes and we are left with dream transcriptions
and delinquencies instead of passion outside the parentheses.

We make it to the crossroads only to come to a stop. The idea we harbor is subversive.
That there may be many moments in which we recognize the sources of our hunger,
falling out of the sky, a complete thought sung to our most visible selves.

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Alison Saar, untitled woodcut, for Arcade by Erica Hunt (Kelsey St. Press, 1996).

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