Americana Stories is a weekly feature of poetry and prose that examines and re-envisions American culture. 

To view previous Americana Stories, visit our archives.

Poetry

Exit Interview, by Alessandra Davy-Falconi

My home has been receipt paper
Wasted into wallets, unread 
No one remembers a chair
And I’ve been stapled
Hard, pressed to paint
My face pretty, every day
I said no.

Read Alessandra’s work here.

Poetry

Bronson, 1985, by Jessica L. Walsh

A dozen crows face north,
their heads like black compass needles.

Beyond them, green-black clouds spill closer.
Rain spits thick, winds move towards roar,

and still the crows don’t move.

Read Jessica‘s work here.

Prose

Permanent Waves, by Kendall Walker

The first time my grandmother ever wore her hair short, it was the day JFK got popped. (I’m much too young, you see, to have my own “The Day JFK Got Popped” story, so I have to tell you my grandmother’s). Twenty-eight years old on that November 22, she went in for a perm, a “permanent,” as she always did around that same date every year, just in time to enhance what she knew to be her already good looks for the upcoming holiday parties.

Read Kendall‘s work here.

Poetry

Two Poems, by Terry Bohnhorst Blackhawk

Here, Terry, you can carry the flowers—

privilege bestowed, to walk out the class-

room door to the sink at the end of the hall,

dump fetid water, try not to gag, wipe

slime from inside the vase, toss the rotting

stems, then back to my obedient fifth

grade seat, unwilling pet, the one child

not mill-bound. I chose “Beatitudes”

Read—and listen—Terry’s work here.

Prose

Let That Be Your Pill, by Stacey Resnikoff

The day after the insurrection, Gražina saw puffy red ovals between her heart line and life lines. Hand cream did nothing. She watched the news standing with palms upturned.

Men with parenthetical facial hair around their mouths yelled this is our house. It could’ve been Mark on TV. Yet Mark was home yesterday, videoconferencing with clients. Duncan, almost eleven, was too young for an overthrow or facial hair.

A radicalized mob broke the peace, but not the transfer of power. Now the security failure of January 6th is being juxtaposed with the show of force in D.C. for the President’s June 1st photo opp. We’ll hear from community leaders.

Read Stacey’s work here.

Poetry

After my dad’s funeral, by Amirah Al Wassif

Read Amirah‘s work here.

Poetry

Form of Collection, by Catharine Batsios

Before I pay cash only
for my royal blue driving gloves,
some soldier named Harry’s Zippo
from 1943, and that glass ashtray
large enough to be a gravy boat,
I look at buttons in jars—
lidless jars at Eastern Market, buttons
light in my hands, cupping fingers like
pistachio shells, giving me
one last chance
to take them home. They’ve accumulated there,

Read—and listen—Catharine’s work here.

Prose

Rising from Phoenix, by Tony Press

In March of 1961 I was standing just over the fence from the Giants bullpen, down the third base line, in Phoenix’s old Municipal Stadium. Chuck Hiller, a hot prospect (.334 in Double A the year before), was doing sit-ups between the rubber and the plate.

“Hey,” he said, “you want to help me here?” Without giving him a chance to withdraw the request, I vaulted the fence, tossed my glove on the perfect green grass, and knelt at his feet, holding them down to make his exertions worth it. I didn’t yet know the expression “died and gone to heaven,” but that’s how I felt. I was nine (almost ten, I told people).

Read Tony’s work here.

Poetry

Juicy, by Lizzy Ke Polishan

You have made yourself small
on the secret cramped bus to Sunset Park
to bring me home a cheeseburger
from that place where the cheeseburgers
are oh-so-juicy.

Read—and listen—Lizzy’s work here.

Poetry

Testimony: James River Tourists, by Sam Barbee

We prop on the rail among clamor: strolling lovers,
hum of bike spokes, rambling families with toddlers
in backpacks flapping arms. Steeples
on guard along hills – footholds high above surface
crests foaming behind hewed river-rock. 

Read Sam’s work here.

Poetry

FOR ALL THE SNAKES
AND WHISKEY
IN IRELAND,
by Brand Rackley

building an observation deck for migratory bird
watching one summer, my friend and i sought
shade ‘neath one of its completed sections.

Read—and listen—Brand’s work here.

Poetry

One Summer When We Were Young, by Judith Waller Carroll

I remember dark purple hollyhocks,
tall stalks of corn. Fried chicken in a basket.
Watermelon juice sliding down our sleeves.

Read—and listen—Judith’s work here.