The New Yorker: Oct. 26, 2015
Poem: “Green Migraine” by Michael Dickman
The night was green the morning was green and now it’s late afternoon inside of a lawnmower
Story: “Who Will Greet You at Home” by Lesley Nneka Arimah
If she was to mother a child, to mute and subdue and fold away parts of herself, the child had to be perfect.











