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Jessica Max Stein writes poetry and grows tomatoes in Brooklyn, New York.
I was fucking a near stranger in northeast Chicago when my mother died. His name was Jonathan. He was tall, long-limbed with enormous hands and prematurely gray hair, an activist who lectured on “the struggle” so genuinely I almost believed him: that we would win this, whoever “we” were, whatever it was.
August 2005Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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