What Ridiculous Things We Could Ask of Each Other Over Time

I put off reading Jeffrey Schultz’s What Ridiculous Things We Could Ask of Each Other for a good three months. I propped it up on my desk and looked at it a lot, though. I studied the 1915 line drawing by George Grosz on its cover, titled Riot of the Madmen. It’s unclear whether the madmen have descended upon the town or are its usual inmates: One dangles a terrified woman from a two-dimensional window; others charge through the streets with canes and hatchets. Continue Reading

Contributor Spotlight: Lois Marie Harrod


Novelist Ann Tyler says that she reads so that she can live more than one life in more than one place. I write for the same reason. My character Marlene Mae lives a brash, reckless life, quite unlike my own more careful and calculating existence. I thought I was done with Marlene Mae in 2013 when Dancing Girl Press published the chapbook How Marlene Mae Longs for the Truth, but she (and her mother) just keep on re-appearing in new poems, including “Marlene Mae Talks About Denial” and “Marlene Mae’s Mother Turns Seventy-Six and Her Physician Asks If She Is Still Sexually Active.” Continue Reading

Contributor Spotlight: Tisha Nemeth-Loomis

The poems “Faith’s Other Shapes” and “Her Risk” explore reinvention, and the impossibility of emotional, physical, and relational wholeness in a culture that values fragmentation and isolation.

Writing is my way of being in the world. I am entirely at ease and fully “dialed in” when I am writing. Forming ideas and arranging them on the page is how I make sense of my surroundings and myself. Because of that, I continue to write—it’s never about the outcome as much as it is about the process, and the discoveries I have about myself while I am composing. Continue Reading

Who Will Carry the Pall?

Henry Art Gallery_Ann Hamilton Opening-054

I walked into the Henry on a sunny November afternoon expecting to spend a lot of time there. I was waiting for my companion to get out of a meeting, and that gave me an opportunity as rare as the sunny day: enough time to move through an installation slowly, enough time to read everything. Ann Hamilton’s the common S E N S E is incredibly well-suited to an attentive, curious reader. Words and the act of reading words form a kind of fulcrum for the show’s exploration of what it means to touch and what it means to be a human animal in a world of animals. Continue Reading

Ron Pattern

Ron Pattern is a signature member of the Northwest Watercolor Society and an associate with the National Watercolor Society. He calls his paintings a “visual diary” of his life. work on his website: patternart.net. Pattern’s next show, “Places & Things,” opens November 7th at Allied Arts in Bellingham, WA. Continue Reading

Interview with Ron Pattern


While Bellingham Review publishes quality literary work from across the continent, our featured visual artist for the Fall 2014 online edition lives right here in our rainy bay town. In each of his paintings, Ron Pattern honors a locale or scene we know well. It is our pleasure to share his art in this issue so that you, far-flung readers, can picture our place. Continue Reading

Lonely Species

My partner made me ears from old suede gloves the color of charred brimstone. She pasted fake sheep’s wool in the center; an illusion of depth. I glued the ears to cardboard and pinned the ensemble to a headband.

Hearing seared me: my neighbor’s spit dissolving venison between its teeth, the cat on the first floor breathing on the window’s glass, a rustle in the crisp leaves below the old alder across the way.

I robed my neck in a fur stole, painted my face with whiskers, felt a coarse growl fill the low space of my throat. Just under my chin I fastened the GPS tracking collar, a hand-forged mechanism made from a headlamp and tinfoil. I left quietly, a cloud slipping over the moon. Continue Reading


I was little when the coyotes came back. They’d been gone so long, people had almost forgotten about them. But they started moving south from Canada again when I was eight or so—shadows, slipping in and out of the woods, elusive gestures of high-held tail and then nothing but the swaying movement of tree branches. We knew they were there.
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