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And If We’d Kept Our Daughter, We’d Have Named Her Lille
By Brent Schaeffer
art curtesy of The University of Chicago on Unsplash
When we got off the train in Paris it was late.
Gare Du Nord looked like a Monet: black
and gray with strokes of gloss. We were lost.
Athena and I slipped into backpacker backpacks and set out
across the city. I had to piss. Like ugly Americans
we stopped at McDonald’s, my ankles killing me,
… We were broke. We took another train north,
hoping it’d be cheaper than Paris. It was.
We got a room for a week—fucked and ate kebabs
from a taco truck thing—just like L.A.—
but colder and somehow romantic. -
LIT 35, Fall 2023
Featuring an interview with Hannah V. Sawyerr (’22), nonfiction by Clare Cannon (’22), fiction by Drew Anderla (’15), hybrid by Elinora Westfall, poetry by Philip Jason, and art by Juan José Clemente.
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LIT at NYC PoFest 2023
Come join LIT and The New School at The Blackbird stage July 29th at 12pm for New York Poetry Society’s annual Poetry Festival weekend on Governor’s Island and catch our featured readers: John Goode: LIT 33; Yael Hacohen: LIT 34; Elaine Johanson: LIT 34. Our own Poetry editors, Rebecca Endres and Richard Berwind will MC. While you’re there, drop by The New School table to say hi and pick up a complimentary LIT back issue.
For a schedule of Headliners and the goings-on of the day,
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Origin Story by Kayla Beth Moore
Let the waters swarm, She said. And She set the birds to flight and the sea monsters She
delivered to the deep. Both waters swarmed and She saw that it was good. Let the earth creep,
She said. Cattle and all crawling things took to the land and the wild animals and the trees and
the fruits of the trees and the seeds of the fruits of the trees filled the earth, and She saw that it
was good. Let something very different happen,
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LIT 34, Summer 2023
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Primavera by Kayla Beth Moore
First there was the void—
known elsewhere as Chaos,
which Ovid called a shapeless heap,
which others know as darkness,
which still lurks in the creases of things.
This was the first of all is.
This shapeless abysm of is
has at certain times in history
found people to bother—
one was Botticelli.
One day the void stared at Botticelli
such that Botticelli felt the bluntness
of its stare like an invisible finger
pressed against his forehead.
