The other day a member of our hardworking staff turned to me and said “You really should write something about the name of the Press. People are curious. Why ‘stenen’?” She said this with a glint in her eye because she knew it would send me down the rabbit hole. As usual, she was right. […]
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The heavy, leathery hope of a turtle carrying her eggs. In her poem “Move,” Alicia Ostriker imagines the labor of our migration home. Ostriker’s compelling brand of inevitability, the “right spot” as she puts it, is born of both ugliness and grace, and embodies the involuntary power of breath. She muses on the turtle’s compulsion
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