EDITOR'S NOTE: the wobbling possum
It's been a hectic year for a lot of us. Taking time to step away from the world and witness art and literature may be one of the wisest things we can do for our spirits. As you read through this issue, you'll follow our creators as they explore parts of themselves that are often difficult to say.
One of our interviews this go-around is with John Gallaher, a celebrated Midwestern poet. In his most recent poetry collection, In A Landscape, Gallaher explores each corner of his life and attempts to understand them. I'll leave you with a section from the poem "XII", which I believe captures the nature of this year and this issue.
I hit a possum once, late at night on my paper route,
1990. I stopped and looked back at it lying there
in the road--a patch of blood on its head. Then slowly
from the bushes past the curb, several more
possums appeared. They went to the one I hit. It
almost looked like a ceremony, light as a feather,
stiff as a board, or something. And the possum rose to its feet,
wobbling a bit, and followed them back into the bushes.
Know that the art may guide you, if you are willing to follow.