Personal Essays, Reviews, & Journalism

Triquarterly: Marble-heavy, a bag full of God

I was nineteen years old when I first read Sylvia Plath’s poem Daddy. I was studying, my junior year abroad, sitting on my bed in a drafty chambre de bonne in the west end of Paris, when I hungrily opened a letter from my dad and discovered, on the back, the faint photocopied poem...

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