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  • Hours Tue-Fri 11-8pm, Sat-Sun 12-5pm, Closed Mon
Event Calendar
readings & workshops
April 10

Virtual Poetry Reading: Marilyn Chin

film & video
April 17

Virtual Film Screening: The Collection

readings & workshops
April 19 - May 10

Intergenerational Self-Collaboration: A Multi-Arts Workshop with Paul McComas

readings & workshops
April 24

Virtual Poetry Reading: Krystal Languell + Jennifer Nelson + Ae Hee Lee

film & video
April 25

Virtual Film Screening: Immortal Cupboard: In Search of Lorine Niedecker 

readings & workshops
April 29

Virtual Poetry Reading: Raquel Salas Rivera + Lara Mimosa Montes

Archived readings & workshops
Sep 17 Thursday, September 17
7:00pm, $Give What You Can

Join us to celebrate the publication of Daniel Khalatschi’s Tradition (McSweeney’s, 2015), and Marc Rahe’s On Hours (Rescue Press, 2015). 


Daniel Khalastchi is the author of two books of poetry, Manoleria (Tupelo Press, 2011) and Tradition (McSweeney’s, 2015). A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop and a former fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, his poems have appeared in a variety of publications, including Colorado Review, Fence, Iowa Review, jubilat, Ninth Letter, Octopus Magazine, and Best American Experimental Writing 2014. He lives in Iowa City and is the co-founder and managing editor of Rescue Press.



Marc Rahe received his M.F.A. from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. He is the author of The Smaller Half (Rescue Press, 2010) and On Hours (Rescue Press, 2015), and his poems have appeared in iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, jubilat, notnostrums, PEN Poetry Series, Petri Press, and elsewhere. Marc lives in Iowa City and works for a human service agency.


Jew and I Travel to the Beat of a Different Drum


The conversion Rabbi takes me to a remodeled Clinique

counter and tells me to enjoy the samples. I use the scruffing


lotion, the intense hydrating moisturizer, and after a few

minutes of informative blackhead discussion with two elderly


female aestheticians, we tweeze my eyebrows and thank

everyone for their time. You look rested, the Rabbi says as we


situate our gift bags in the trunk of his Lincoln. You look fierce

and assertive and that’s going to help when we get to shul. For the rest


of the afternoon I am treated to hand-jobs and head

massages. We go to a Russian bath, a suit-fitting, and end


the day stripped of our shirts, discussing flattering wet/dry

hairstyles with a barbarette we call “Tina.” I ask for a hot


shave but the Rabbi shakes his head. We need to show you have

the soul of a carburetor. Shaving, he continues, is the mark of a man


who still has a mother. The Rabbi tells Tina to put the day’s

services on his tab, and we take a rough road back to the


synagogue and park. While I futz with the radio, the Rabbi

reaches into his breast pocket and removes a thick manila


envelope beating with cash. Get out, he says, and we walk to

the rear exit of the building and position my body to look


naturally negligent. It is hard to stand with my feet facing

each other, but I am assured with confidence this is how


things must begin. Before he leaves, the Rabbi stuffs my

pants and mouth with crisp new money and a Sinatra


cassette. When the ladies come out of Maariv, they will fight to see who

gets to take you home. But I already have a wife, I mumble through


the paper. These women won’t care, the Rabbi says. They will make

you apricot kugel and strong babies and the whole time they’ll only be


thinking how much they are lifting themselves to the Lord.


                         —Daniel Khalatschi 

                        originally published in Jubilat





I am the windows
that look out on windows.

I am the gaze. I am the unreal

bodies behind the drapes.

Mine is the black counter
wiped down again and again.

I am a caretaker;
I worry from afar.


I worry a sore.


do you go, after?

Between privacies is the dark

of a key-filled lock.

From inside my gem my look


is hidden, each face

familiar when facing away.


                         —Marc Rahe

                         originally published in PEN Poetry Series