Author Archives: evanduyne

About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.

Part Two: Dysmorphic

Last night, my mother threw my sister a bridal shower in the back yard. Once more, it filled up with loved ones, delicious food, and white Coleman coolers brimming with beer and wine. I made white Sangria, full of chunks … Continue reading

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Part One: Lightweights

Last weekend, my good friend’s father was hit by a car. He was on his bike; he’s a serious rider, serious about fitness. He works at a gym for a living. The car was going about 50 miles per hour. … Continue reading

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I Dedicate My No Trump Vote

This piece was originally accepted by the blog http://dedicateyournotrumpvote.blogspot.com/ , a project I love, support, and am proud to have been a part of, even peripherally. Unfortunately, they were so overrun with submissions (huzzah!), it’s not going to run, but I … Continue reading

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This Is Not Analogous

Ok, so here we go again, with the same tired, essentially racist, logic-free argument. I recall a blog post that “trended” when Trayvon Martin was shot, that described in hideous detail the carjacking death of a young white woman at … Continue reading

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Jamaal As Target Ad

Since what ends up as fable so often starts in a rapture, since my cat performs a Jubilate Agno as I lay my son to sleep, since Venus shines hot and distant in the distance of his nightly window, moving; … Continue reading

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In Praise of Clean Panties, My Mother

Who even now might walk through my front door with my own son in tow, having kept him for the night, having schlepped him to church to praise the small ways he points at the blood-tipped palms of Christ and … Continue reading

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There Is A God I’ve Wanted All My Life

The way you feel describing objective truth. The way the shadow of two bald blue branches on your son’s pale nighttime wall creak in and out Like pincers, like rusted tweezers Like a wishbone, like a horror Like the dreams … Continue reading

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