Maybe nothing is meant to be seen so, but when I saw your mouth, your mouth alone, neither in sleep nor silenced by thought, fear, astonishment at our selves, for we were alone, at last, in bed, not far from sleep, I thought I saw the consequence of things, the having to prevail over the…
Coppélia What does it mean? What can it mean? A man so lonely he goes mad and builds a girl furnished with everything, and yes, I mean everything. Just look: right down to the curl of our disputed provinces, she’s my twin, Alsace to my Lorraine, no blood but oil for beaus who blanch, or…
Vito was lethargic, curled up in his fleece bed with sad eyes. He wasn’t eating. His distended abdomen was sore to the touch. Six times he’d eaten a sock. Five times it had come out the other side, worse for the wear, composted. But not this time. It was the sixth sock that did not…
Crack in the silence, blades of green a warbler leaps through. The same room, roses on the wallpaper, a deep old tub. And I’ve opened the blinds. Stripes of light corrugate the bedclothes.
What I also didn’t expect was the premonition. Through the windshield, I half-saw two angels, two somber old gentlemen telling me my life was due. But when I thought to them I still have a five-year-old son to raise, and asked to be given the time to raise him, they both stepped back from me…
Charlie Teitlebaum, a forty-two-year-old surgeon born and raised in the same Boston neighborhood in which Howard had grown up, had not been one of Howard’s residents, but while Charlie was doing his internship at The George Washington School of Medicine, where Howard was on the faculty, he and Howard became friends. At the time, Charlie…
Through blue glass, a table painted blue, roses vermilion, Amber tumblers, candlesticks, a mirror darkening until all Grays in oncoming light. Goats bleat, radioblare, a gunshot. Past the celosia, a tree where yellow birds feed; heat and wind From the mountains. Close your eyes and retinas scald The window crimson, mullions bright of orangeskin Lit…
The Spanish Steps: Keats Departing He hated that he could no longer taste the thick risotto, the paved rosetta rolls soft on the inside, cool globes of fruit plucked from ashy soil, the quivering curd cheese and leafy Puglian greens. All sustenance—even his Chianti’s terroir— mocked him. And so, after weeks of this effrontery, he…
On the radio, they were calling it “snow-mageddon.” Joan had seen it on the news, as well, in a Doppler radar swirl that looked like a green hurricane, pulsing like a sick heart over the Cascade Mountains. The worst of it was supposed to hit tomorrow, midday, but already the snow had begun to fall…
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