The Literary Journal of the Stonecoast MFA
Stonecoast Review is excited to announce Nancy Connors’ poem “To Cigarettes” has been selected to appear in The Pushcart Prize Volume XLVII (2023 edition), scheduled for publication in November. “To Cigarettes” was originally published in Stonecoast Review Issue 14. Congratulations to Nancy Connors on this incredible…
Interview by Linda Mahal Cover photo by Constance Faulk Stonecoast Faculty Member Cara Hoffman is the author of Running, a New York Times Editor’s Choice, an Esquire Magazine Best Book of the Year, and an Autostraddle Best Queer and Feminist Book of the Year. She first received national attention in 2011 with the publication of…
By Ben Boegehold the principle was this to cut away the useless to cast it off to render the fat and cleave the meat from bone the quick from the dead perhaps though truth is not as simple as a butcher’s job maybe we cannot take the mystery…
By Christopher Linforth A stand of cherry blossom trees lined the garden of my childhood home. My parents always said that the explosion of pink had sold them on the house. By the time they split up a few years later, when I was thirteen, disease had…
Interview by Linda Mahal A beloved faculty member of the Stonecoast MFA Program in Creative Writing since 2007, Debra Marquart is a Distinguished Professor of Liberal Arts & Sciences at Iowa State University, where she teaches in the MFA Program in Creative Writing and Environment and…
By Jenny O’Connell Photo by Lucas Marquardt Ada Limón is the author of six books of poetry, including The Carrying, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry. Limón is also the host of the critically-acclaimed poetry podcast, The Slowdown. In this interview with Stonecoast MFA,…
Short answer: Because I want to read stories that haven’t been written yet. Long answer: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a weird child living in a lonely suburb must find all of his best friends in books. When I had nobody, I still…
There is a country where my voice must hold its daily reckoning and question this allegiance to the spirit of the crossroads who has scattered what remains too horrible for language and placed a skull over a stump to guard his wretched boundaries. I know his ways so…
Wind knocks brown leaves off the poplars like ashes off vertical cigars, and a trolleybus tries puddles on the round flippers of its wheels. A woman with an umbrella walks across the black square like a rustling whirligig. One out of every three in this…
You were in a wheelbarrow that day when the wind overturned trees, trashcans, and I was being born. In the pavilion Hazel foamed while Furies hovered above, their hands wrung with joy. She kept me deadlocked like Julius Caesar in a pool of blood. Then you diverted oh so…