Announcing the Confrontation 2014 Poetry Prize: $750 and publication in one of our 2014 issues for the winning poem. Submit up to four previously unpublished poems with a $10 entry fee to Confrontation during the months of February or March 2014. Your entry fee includes a year-long subscription to the magazine, beginning with a copy...
The Lessons of Connaught Place: Rarely does a work of architecture represent something so different from what was intended.
I was alone, on my knees, in my closet-sized bedroom, dutifully running through the rosary, when my prayers were disrupted by that most sensual of pleasures—the aroma of a well-cooked dinner.
A boy in the neighborhood had become a problem for Rella. For years he had shouted names like “Knucklenose” and “Vat,” names whose significance she could not determine, whenever their paths crossed and he was in the mood.
From the moment the patient becomes indistinguishable
I knew a wedding DJ once who claimed he could reorder any space based on the songs he chose to play. It’s all just an algorithm, higher math, the music of the spheres; if you know the right sequence, you can move anybody anywhere.
He took the wood from me and bound my wrists
When the R.N. at the nursing home told me Mother might die any day, I hit the Emily Dickinson hard, even keeping a collection of her poetry open on the kitchen counter for easy access.
Every summer, the beginning of travel season, I become apprehensive. I’m not afraid of flying. I take five or six trips a year by air, both short hops and long-haul flights that cross half a dozen time zones. I’m apprehensive because I don’t live in the United States, and travel in the summer typically...
Robert Snyderman reads his poem "Monastery for Sandy Hook Children and Teachers," winner of the 2013 Confrontation Poetry Prize, which appears in Issue No. 113, Spring 2013.
Onto the thick, red, dead sands of Mars, the Mars rover imprinted the signature of life. Across the ripples of sand, miles of ripples laid out by the wind, ripples that curved and curved in and out and were never straight for long, ripples that were not smiles or frowns but merely the face of...
It was the left eye that wasn’t. Just fine fur, smooth, a faint black scrape of a stitch line where the lower eyelid would have been. The skin blinked, an uncanny movement suggesting eye muscles with no eye to roll.