Letters from the Editors
Dear Reader,
Sometimes I come dangerously close to believing some kind of Evil—the mandate of “take take take”—has taken over this world once and for all. At such times, I start to wonder where I might find a nice cave to call my own, or perhaps a soft patch of sand suitable for head-burying. But then I remember there’s so much more nuance and complexity to the picture than that, and so much to continue envisioning and working toward, both alone and in community with others. For me, the co-creation of Issue 89 has been a small but precious lesson in the magic that can happen when a chorus of voices from near and far come together. It has been a welcome reminder to turn toward teamwork and collaboration when it feels like the troubles of the world are too formidable to face.
The pieces in Issue 89 pulsate with love, life, loss, longing. Rather than shying away from shades of gray, they lean into them with great courage. There are too many stellar pieces here to highlight, but a few include Alina Nguyễn’s poem “Poetry House,” which somehow reverberates loudly in its quiet restraint; Theresa Marl’s essay “Unravel,” a devastating story of hope that interweaves virtual and embodied experience to great effect; and Margaret Campbell’s “30th Street Station,” a work of short fiction that rewards repeated readings just as the photograph described by its narrator continues to gain meaning over time. But in the words of Reading Rainbow’s LeVar Burton, “You don’t have to take my word for it.”
As I celebrate this issue going live, I’m also looking forward to Issue 90, which will include our first folio featuring the work of incarcerated writers. In the coming weeks and months, we’ll also be heading to AWP in Los Angeles and holding our annual contest judged by the inimitable Gabrielle Bates, Laura Chow Reeve, and Lilly Dancyger.
Thank you to everyone who contributed to this issue—writers, editors, first readers, dogs and cats whose peaceful snoring encouraged us to slow down and savor this work we share. And thank you for spending some time with Bellingham Review. We’re all in this together.
Respectfully,
Kelsey Tribble, Managing Editor
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Dear Readers,
We are just at the beginning of the winter and fog has settled over Bellingham lending an eerie quality to the damp chill. This fall I had the opportunity to read dozens of wonderful and weird pieces of writing, and it feels appropriate to be sending some of them into the world in a cloak of mist, the treasures they hold remaining a mystery until you lay your hands on them for yourself.
Ye Ning’s “Aquarium” has haunted me since I read it, transporting me along with the main character into the mind of a fish, leading me to question my own position in this world of living things. Andrea Thurairatnam Imdacha’s “Any Thursday After the Apocalypse” also pulled me into a new mindset that I can’t quite shake. Imdacha brings readers through the analysis of a life in the process of being snuffed out; it made me question what I value most in this world and which trivialities have grabbed hold of my brain with an iron claw.
The incredible hybrid piece, “Point of Entry” by Claudia Owusu tells an immigration story in the form of an unconventional passport document. Owusu subverts the collection of facts you might typically find with truth that is far more human and piercing.
It’s been a pleasure reading such wonderful work and it’s a privilege to share it with you here in Issue 89 of Bellingham Review. I hope in its proverbial pages you find a spark that will help light your way through the obscurity of winter.
Abby Kidd, Assistant Managing Editor
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Dearest readers,
I am writing from my childhood home, where there’s snow on the ground and a bowl of fruit in the kitchen — dragonfruit, oranges, and tomatoes (yes, a fruit!). It’s almost the lunar new year, the year of the snake. Soft loops, shedding skin, hissing wisdom. A time of renewal and protection. Which is necessary in this time, to protect each other, to hold each other close. At this very moment, I am thinking of the fires in Los Angeles, the genocide in Gaza, the war in Sudan – the weight of our personal and collective grief — and how we must renew our commitments to demand safety, care, and an end to such immense suffering. From June Jordan’s poem “Resolution #1,003”: “I will stay indifferent to indifference / I will live hostile to hostility / I will make myself a passionate and eager lover in response to passionate and eager love.”
I am thinking of the farmers who grew and picked this fruit on my mother’s counter. I am thinking of how, when she was growing up as a farmer in rural China, she also picked fruit and vegetables. And it shows in her hands, in her heart. I’m honored to share Seattle-based artist Yaminee Patel’s piece “Rice Farmer,” which is lovingly and carefully made from grains. In her artist statement she writes: “[My work] shows the humble beginnings of where rice comes from and the hands that pull it from the ground. It is the start to a tedious and back breaking journey for the rice.”
There is so much beauty and strangeness and grief and wonder in this issue. I’m so excited to share each poem, each story, each essay, each hybrid piece with you. I’m also deeply grateful for my incredible team of readers and editors who helped bring these pieces forward. We’ve had so many rich conversations! Trust me, read this whole issue; new seeds of thought will bloom. This issue is abundant and full of lyricism and vulnerability. In Nik Chang Hoon 임창훈’s “Abandoned supposings: A letter to my non-father’s silence,” the epistolary form opens up the possibilities of what the narrator can and can’t know: “Perhaps in this way, you were stored in none of these places but also in all of them.” In Claudia Owusu’s hybrid essay “Point of Entry,” baby teeth is a site of inheritance: “Why explain history when you can delude? Moving forward is a necessary habit. One of the many I utilize on occasion. Perhaps it was given to me at birth. Perhaps it came in with the first seedling of my baby teeth.” In Ina Cariño’s propulsive poem “Salt,” there is visceral insistence: “yes, when I eat, I salt the bitter, / & the sour, & even the sweet.” Jax Connelly, in their essay “What It Was” lingers in “loving a girl the way we loved each other.” And in Mercedes Rodriguez’s “Elegy,” grief echoes in tenderness: “I had a dream where I brought you back to life.”
Purvi Shah’s poem “Uncolonial this shelter, home my skin, bring me ocean & a song of tangling limbs” is a lush invocation, which I’ll leave you with: “I give consent: / replenish. I give / consent: adorn.” May we replenish our love and care for each other through mutual aid, may we dream up and thrive in adornments of everyday beauty too. This strand of my gray hair, this bright snow patch, this making of art that we are generous enough to share.
With warmth,
Jane Wong, Editor-in-Chief