This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treesman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Greg Jackson read his story, poetry,

from the April 29th, 2019 issue of the magazine.

Jackson is the author of the story collection, Prodigals, which was published in 2016, and

a winner of the National Book Foundation's Five Under 35 Award and the Bard Fiction Prize.

Now here's Greg Jackson.

Poetry

The volcano sat like a pointed cap at the head of the island.

But this we only knew from photos,

since whenever we were near enough to see the volcano,

it was covered in mist and clouds.

The clouds suggested rain,

and rain suggested that Celeste would not enjoy the hike, but so, frankly, did Celeste dislike of hikes.

In any way, I had convinced myself the weather would cooperate.

Cooperate is an interesting word in this context, because it implies a natural alignment of interests, mine in the volcanoes.

In the history of humans in volcanoes, as I understand it, does not encourage confidence in this direction. But the volcano was there, and so we had to climb it. That was how things shook out for me.

Once Celeste had spent the afternoon in a high-altitude refugio while I hiked to the top of an Italian

mountain in sneakers and shorts among people with poles and crampons who looked outfitted

basically for an expedition to Mars. So maybe Celeste did have a choice, but maybe not. There was

the looming question of marriage and children after all,

and of the deeper compatibility of our interests, tendencies, compulsions, and so on. James

...