The Georgia Review

In Memoriam: Toni Morrison by Jessie LaFrance Dunbar, Khadijah Queen, & Barbara McCaskill Because of This Woman, I Plant Marigolds
As a child I wanted to know why God put me in this body that repelled so many people on sight. Why people felt at liberty to pick me apart and wipe off their filth with the pieces of me. . . .
The Voice of Sheila Chandra by Kazim Ali

When the sun goes down you move

horizontal you become everything

in the world at once rather than waking

like vertical where you obsess over

ascend or descend or whatever rain

at the edge of the building spit forth

by gargoyles does drown yourself in the jizz

of the world no shape of narrative

I’m lost but thrilled sun yellow still

inside my self I am a pocket for the other

day already gone Sheila hillbilly

iconoclast seizes the song in the cage

of her throat drawls not the edge of it

but its music entire

. . .
The Gay Horizon by Alicia Mountain
The first twenty minutes in line outside the bathhouse sound like thunder. The Broncos have just played—maybe won—at Mile High Stadium, and if it weren’t for a block of four-story apartment buildings we ’d be looking down on the city from the Highlands. . . .
Two Goats by Erik Raschke
There was a story in the village of Bjni that went like this: When Armenia declared its independence from the Soviet Union, there were two types of people—Armenian A, . . .