Count they teach me so I count I count to ten I count to a hundred a thousand then I’m taught math I add subtract multiply just as I’m told but they never let on I’d still now be obsessively trying to calculate how to make things make sense I’ve lived for instance as of…
Ed is retired. Lucky Ed. He sits around and drinks his beer. He snores. There’s nothing in his head. Ed is retired. Lucky Ed, his wife thinks. I’ll go out instead of killing him if I stay here. Ed is retired. Lucky Ed. The TV blares. He drinks his beer. Sid is a workaholic. He…
Your first motherless day found you in the pines photographing pink legs of an elusive hermit thrush you tracked by ear to a twig that didn’t tip, so empty were the hollow bones at the marrow of song. The phone pealing at home startled your dog awake. It rang and rang, territorial. The hours you…
Each summer when I’m in Krakow, I make weekly trips to a flea market close to our apartment. This particular market also sells antiques, but it doesn’t aspire to a loftier name, because it also peddles secondhand books, last year’s issues of fashion magazines, handmade jewelry, items that aren’t old in the sense that antiques…
Perhaps the single feature of the villanelle that twentieth-century poets made their own is the absence of narrative possibility… the form refuses to tell a story… —The Making of a Poem Don’t write a villanelle to tell a tale: they’re not the form for narrative or plot. It’s pretty obvious why…
My Pom’s 15, a centenarian dog, but that’s nothing to a tortoise. And next to a creosote bush in the Mojave Desert, oldest living protoplasm on earth, it’s a breath. And earth’s history, compared to the universe, an hour of yogic breathing. Such a tiny fraction, so little between .000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001 and zero, my…
Colm Tóibín is a gentleman. A very witty, charming, lively, and sometimes deliciously louche gentleman, but a gentleman all the same, though one senses that he might not wish for that to be said too loudly. He has the beauty of a boxer—strong chest, light on his feet, precise in his movements and in his…
b. h. fairchild The Game Field lights that span the evening sky, siren songs of kind, loud girls in thigh-high skirts, the clatter of our shoulder pads and cleats, and then the crowd in its great hunger rising up as we stride across that green plane bright with new lime and dreams of high school…
Getting out of his car one night, he discovers—No! It’s gone!—the ring he’d worn on his left pinky for more than thirty years. He treasured it. Not because an old lover had given it to him—she’d stopped meaning anything to him decades ago. But because it was an elegant thing: “like gold to airy thinness…
No products in the cart.