Megan Jeanne Gette

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cover art by D. Allen 

“As is usual, I don’t know how to conclude or how you do. As I said above, corpses. There is life in this, but you see it as recuperated only in the burial shroud. You feel its eyes on all you do or might do or be. ‘Survival depends on lies.’ ‘What passes for truth’? Survival. Bare life. I keep trying to write utopia back into your stories, but you keep translating the word into American. Is there a life that is not merely surviving? What will it look like? Do we have to carry it off everywhere to live it at all ourselves? What about us? Isn’t the wreckage the Angel of History (which is us) sees piling up us as well, that we become complicit in the storm blowing from paradise when we, in what few agentive moments we are offered to make something whole, instead cry out to the infinite and submit ourselves to cyclical destruction? ‘One single catastrophe.’” —c