Born n Yerevan, Armenia, Margarit Tadevosyan Ordukhanyan moved to the USA at the age of 18 to pursue her education and a career in the letters. Dr. Ordukhanyan received her PhD in English and Comparative Literature from Boston College, where she studied theoretical and practical aspects of literary translation, and conducted extensive research on exilic literature, bilingual writers, and the function of self-translation in the multilingual literary imagination. She has published numerous articles and essays on Vladimir Nabokov, Joseph Conrad, and other bilingual writers and is currently completing work on a book entitled The Verbal Texture of Exile. Her translations of modern and contemporary Russian and Armenian writers into English have appeared in book collections in the USA and abroad. Dr. Ordukhanyan currently resides in New York City.
She pretended that it was his demanding flesh caressing her inside. Even her husband noticed how her body began to reciprocate by thrusting itself forward, so his movements became...
And I will sprawl over your pages, I’ll hide away between the lines, in your words’ boiler or in the attic of the title, or in the outhouse of...
Why the inevitable? Why was it inevitable? Simply because a woman always feels it, nothing more, and she has no need to explain or rationalize it. The ostrich-like expressions...
Bathroom. He’d already showered, and was now staring into the mirror. First—work, then off to see his wit-stealer. By the door, he bent down, his eyes red, fixed...
he got on his feet. of course! there you go, brother shit, my great brother shit. the brother in america counts for nothing, i don’t consider him a brother....
I'll bring my mouth close to yours,
I'll cover you with my lips,
And my inquisitive tongue will search your entire body
in order to seek, find, and savor...
“Uh-uh,” the woman shook her head. She’d already gotten hers. Those thoughts always visited her after the act. She could ‘relax’ simply by touching, but rubbing up against something....
he’s drinking, and all he can think of is iren. nobody’s noticed that she’s already his, and that the only thing standing between their bodies now is time. a...
I wrote my first poem
With my steps
When as a student struck down by my mad infatuation
I roamed the streets and alleys of my city
Writing the...
dots instead of the road leading to the isolation cell. ono, why did you kill your wife? brother, put yourself in my place, you come home and find your...
