Tag Archives: margaree little

the dictionary project presents: volume 4





Saturday night, we will be hosting our fourth  installment in The Dictionary Project Presents! reading series at Casa Libre in Tucson, AZ.

As with the project itself, the reading series is rooted in serendipity, play, and love of language. For The Dictionary Project Presents! reading, our readers get the same word two weeks prior to the event and in that time, compose a piece to share with a live audience that is born from that word. We aren’t announcing the word until the night of the event, but there are a few hints in the photos.

We are delighted to have the following writers participating:

Em Bowen is a storyteller, a daughter, a writer, a sister, an amigo, a cat-owner, a story encourager, an editor, never a girlfriend, occasionally a boyfriend and always changing (much as we all are, whether we realize it or not). They went to college in a big university in the Southwest complete with a college town and artsy people. They preferred and still prefer the artsy people. They moved to Portland, Oregon for a while but now reside in Tucson, Arizona again where they like to imagine that they wake up every morning and kick each day in the face. Their work pieces through the human condition, queerness, honesty and the ways in which we learn to survive better.

Garrett Faulkner  writes fiction and catches hell for his surname often. He is a fifth-semester student at the University of Arizona’s Creative Writing MFA program, and is interested in the history of systemic injustice within southern Appalachian communities. Among the august ranks of the MFA contingent here, he is the one most likely to be seen at a bar table surrounded by four or five beautiful women of exotic provenance, sobbing over a tumbler of Campari and grapefruit juice. He will kick this habit after his thesis semester.

Cybele Knowles writes poems, essays, stories, and screenplays. Her work is forthcoming or published in Fairy Tale Review, The Destroyer, Diagram, Spiral Orb, Pindeldyboz, The Asian Pacific American Journal, Faucheuse, and The Prose Poem. She works as a program coordinator at the UA Poetry Center.

Molly Little’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, New England Review, The Missouri Review, and the Southern Review. Originally from Rhode Island, she has lived in Tucson since 2009.

Matt Mendez lives in Tucson with his wife and daughters. He writes, too. His first book, I, is out from Floricanto Press.

1 Comment

Filed under the dictionary project presents




Today is our first poem of na·po·mo 2013 at the dictionary project! We are delighted to have Margaree Little as our first poet this month. Please enjoy her take on oblate.


ob·late    (ä-ˈblāt, ˈä-ˌ),  adj.  [ML.  oblatus,  offered, thrust forward (in L., pp. of offerre; see OFFER),  1.  dedicated to a religious or monastic life.  2.   [Mod. L. oblatus; ob- (see OB-)  +  –latus as in prolatus (see PROLATE): from being thrust forward at the equator], in geometry, flattened at the poles: as, an oblate spheroid.  n.  a person dedicated to religious or monastic life.






As though by going back to it now it would become clear—or more than that, say what you mean, come right, a resolution of the leaves piling up in the yard, then turning to mulch, behind the house the blackberry bushes taking over the length of the garden.  In the summer the bushes thick with berries: she’d go out with a plastic tub to fill, bring it in, and I would think that letting things go like this, if that was what it should be called, was just another way of living, as a monk who also lives alone has chosen a way of living, and so it was okay, how she’d sleep in the afternoon, how when I’d first come in she’d call hello from upstairs, her voice confused at first, tentative, like a child who has learned not to speak out of place.  That fall, or rather, that month between summer and fall when I stayed with her, each day was similar to the next, running in the mornings up the road past the green field, the cemetery, the street where an old girlfriend had lived, fog on the field each morning lifting by ten.  The house an old house, dark in the living room until evening, though then that room would be flooded with light: a novel, my friend told me once, is about something ongoing.  A story is about when something shifts.  And a poem, I realized later I’d forgotten to ask, is a poem what is called dissembling?  The thick, sweet blackberries in my hands when I picked them, arms and fingers turning dark from the juice.  Her small body in the bed upstairs, not asking for anything.




headshotMargaree Little’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, The Missouri Review, The Southern Review, New England Review, and elsewhere. She earned her MFA at Warren Wilson College and lives in Tucson.

Leave a comment

Filed under napomo