the BROOKLYN REVIEW 2018 Yiyun Li . Lisa Ko . Phil Klay Dorothy Chan . James B. Nicola . Michael Hawley Samantha Lê . Judith Cody . Taylor Larsen 1 BROOKLYN the BROOKLYN REVIEW Welcome to the 2018 edition of The Brooklyn Review. We’re a weird, scrappy little magazine that also happens to have a decades-long history of publishing fresh and inventive poetry, prose, and performance. While we were defunct for a time, we’ve since risen from the ashes. We’re now truly thriving: from participating in the 2017 Writer’s Digest Annual Conference to Grayson Morley winning the PEN American/Robert J. Dau Short Story award for a piece that appeared in this magazine to publishing this, our second print edition since our resurrection last year. No matter what, we always have and always will stay true to the creative visions of John Ashbery, Allen Ginsberg, and Jonathan Baumbach, all of whom helped shape The Brooklyn Review over the years. I want to thank everyone who made this issue and this past year possible, and I look forward to seeing what The Brooklyn Review achieves in the years to come. -Ariel Courage MASTHEAD Ariel Courage : Editor in Chief Bryan Chonto : Managing Editor Swati Prasad : Production Editor Elizabeth Sobel : Fiction Editor Jivin Misra : Assistant Fiction Editor Drew Pham : Assistant Fiction Editor Erika Dane Kielsgard : Poetry Editor Yvonne Yevan Yu : Art Editor Cherry Lou Sy : Performance Editor Jess Silfa : Social Media Editor Raffi Kiureghian : Reviews Editor Sameet Dhillon : Archives Editors Wesley Straton : Archives Editors Bonnie Harris : Faculty Advisor rosa struggles: 8 adapts and conquers by judith cody the man with blue eyes 10 by samantha lê cristina 12 by taylor larsen phil klay interview 26 by drew pham fly trap and 41 the third eye counts by anna bernsetin yiyun li interview 46 by yvonne yevan yu i have a crush on my 56 mother's teen idol by dorothy chan gates, a photo series 58 by ben cowan lisa ko interview 64 by ariel courage spiral path 66 by james b. nicola little fishes 72 by michael hawley 100 contributors ROSA STRUGGLES: ADAPTS AND CONQUERS by Judith Cody 8 Envision the type of pathos that describes the true meaning of the Rose. It seems surely as if the Rose has come to mean more to us in a neurobiological or perhaps neuropsychological system of being, than a mere flower, a biologic entity evolved primarily for the propagation of a plant, a very complex method of propagation of course! It is one method of nonmammalian sexuality that we perceive as compellingly beautiful in an almost universal form of attraction. This rather simple organic arrangement of leaves, petioles, petals, and sepals on a stem weaves a powerful attraction over the lives of millions of lovers, brides, gardeners, artists, and of course, the frail, the desperate, and lastly the dead who lie in serene fellowship with the Rose’s final message to humanity. Imagine, if you will, the wounded lover (whose incandescent emotions have been snuffed out by caustic reiterations of their lover) who now waits in self-enforced solitude for a brief message, a word, a whisper from he or she who inflicted the sorry wounds. And then—a ring or perhaps a knock at the door (or an intimate finger taps tenderly against the window glass). The unknown mysterious face is seen through the tear-streaked glass bubble of the peephole bored like a primordial insect through the middle panel of the door. Who is this who dares to come to the sobbing shell of love, a love which has been stung, lacerated by harsh, vindictive words? Ah. A uniform? Ah. Yes, yes, O yes, a solitary delivery person. It is certain now; an exhaustive search while pasted against the soiled brass peephole confirms this: a florist’s truck parks deliciously in the driveway. Joy. A hand belonging to the reddened, still lachrymose eye flings open the door, both hands now stretch forward clutching hungrily at the serious-faced delivery man as he offers the long slim box to the gravely saddened one. An impractically long, esthetically appealing slim, white and pure box is held up for inspection like a knight’s sword might be held up for a king’s opinion. Approval is instantaneous. When the taped-on lid is fumbled with, almost savagely dismembered by anxious hands trembling with anticipation there, lying against the soft cushions of green tissue is the One. The single One Rose of a brilliant red, red the red of crushed lips, of flushed cheeks, of a single drop of purest lover’s blood! The healing is almost instantaneous as the disconsolate one embraces the Rose against the love-tormented breast. The heart is eased, tears halt immediately, and relaxation ascends through every wracked and weary muscle. Peace and pleasure again reside in the human body. Dopamine is delivered in dollops. Addiction quelled until the next delivery. 9 i. iii. legs like birch trunks stripped peeking at hardships white by winter through a keyhole ginseng root toes the way a hurricane mangled from wear searches for land chest scarred I lose a shoe the color of wheat fields at the water’s edge something else too small to miss but he smears also drifts out to sea like wet ink when we touch iv. ii. we scribe promises we celebrate the harvest moon in squid black forgetting to mourn as if they have a place the death of summer of permanence thin strings bind our pages launched paper boats into a collection of odes bleed colors soak up more shadows v. than they can hold counting stars every night a different number vi. a dragonfly in winter falling mercury discards its wings in mid-flight 10 THE MAN WITH BLUE iii. EYES peeking at hardships put your blue eyes by Samantha Lê through a keyhole back on the windowsill darling the way a hurricane keep the lightning bugs searches for land from entering I lose a shoe at the water’s edge vii. something else too small to miss face made mean out of habit also drifts out to sea fists throb like two beating hearts iv. I’ve never been angry enough we scribe promises to freeze oranges in squid black like heads with the name as if they have a place of my assassin scratched of permanence across the rind thin strings bind our pages into a collection of odes but here I am v. viii. counting stars I listen to the house breathe every night the creaks a different number of someone leaving and the stillness that follows vi. a dragonfly in winter breakfast burns on the black falling mercury skillet still sucking in air discards its wings in mid-flight 11 CRISTINA by Taylor Larsen There was something about Cristina that I liked right away. I was embarrassed to admit how quickly I calculated her looks and their probability of arousing my husband, but maybe such estimations were inevitable and instinctive. Sizing up Cristina was easy. She was chubby, with a pretty face, and wore nondescript outfits such as jeans and a white t-shirt. I was sure my husband would see her as asexual. She came to work for us at the end of the summer just over a year ago, after we discovered our former maid had been stealing my jewelry. The interview and hiring process were rushed and we took Cristina in without careful scrutiny. She had arrived in the U.S. eight months before we met her, after divorcing her husband in Guatemala. She had two children, to whom she sent a third of her check every month. We were lucky, as she proved to be hard working, respectful, and calm. She seemed to stabilize every room she entered, her hands deftly sorting out all disorder in the background. When she first walked into our large living room, she looked around in bewilderment. 12 “Such lovely things!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. I found it hard not to be flattered by her. We had just redecorated the downstairs and I was proud of how it turned out. The dining room was ensconced in a lush wallpaper of red and gold, and the dining room table was dark wood, the edges of which were also lined with gold. The living room was more eclectic. We had experimental sculptures, such as a great winged bird made out of silverware, and green velvet couches. She went from room to room, amazed, and stared for a long time at a painting over the fireplace of a snowy road leading to a cozy house, lit from within by orange light, smoke CRISTINA trickling out of the chimney. I had begun working from home earlier that year and, as I was still getting used to budgeting my day into chunks of productivity, I was relieved to leave all the housework to the maid. My study was next to the kitchen, so I could sometimes hear the various tasks being completed in the other room, such as unloading the dishwasher or mopping the kitchen floor, and would feel a pang of guilt for not helping and for having the luxury of spending the day doing my own work, editing manuscripts for children’s books. Eight years prior, I had made the career choice to work every day at the publishing house. This decision meant less time with the children, and what emerged seemed a more professional relationship with them. They approached me rationally and would state a need they had, listing all the reasons they felt they should have, or be able to do, a certain thing, and then I would or would not grant permission.