Siba keeps shaking his head as if pushing a vision away. His chest is heaving, tears are spilling down his cheeks, but he is silent, choking back any sound. We are walking west on East Eighty-sixth Street, the leafless trees of Central Park a few blocks ahead. We move under a green awning and past…
Back home where Paul’s mother lived it flooded Friday night. When his catering shift was over, at one a.m., he got his backpack from the servery and saw that she had called. On the message her voice was dull and strained, emptied by hopeless labor. She’d been bailing out the basement since eight, until her…
I can’t sleep. I feel the globe making a rotation, and I’m not supposed to be, but I’m awake for it. I’m at that age when everyone is talking about the kinds of love they’ve been using to get by. It’s a very dark late. The sound of a towel dropping off the rack into…
Even now, forty-one years later, if I think of him, his name comes back (both his names) immediately and easily: gliding up from an opaque and then translucent depth, flashing to the surface like markers for a wreck or trap, like floats from a storm-torn net. “Mr. Jerome.” “Theodore” (I never called him that but…
In northwestern Montana once, I met a person who changed my mind. This well-published and respected writer had moved to that frontier university town, to teach a four-four load, and to be, I suppose, left the hell alone. The English departments of frontier colleges (I once taught in such a place) are often staffed by…
Picture a city and the survivors: from their windows, some scream. Others walk the wreckage: blood and still more blood coming from the mouth of a girl. This is the same movie playing all over the world: starring everybody who ends up where the action is: lights, cameras, close-ups: that used to be somebody’s leg….
My father always said he was a betting man and that his first love was gambling. Dice and cards, not sports or cars, not girls. Curbside on the gritty Depression-era streets of Providence, Rhode Island, he honed this practice rolling dice against the gutter or shuffling cards with the grace and speed of a magician….
Some mornings I try to remember: what is the name of the famous hockey defenseman for the Boston Bruins who, in the last few years of his 22-year career, played for the Colorado Avalanche and who, in his last year of play, was part of a Colorado team that won the Stanley Cup? Ray Bourque….
A waxing moon, tail-wind of a return, but to what? Life on the telephone, letters typed on a computer screen which no one needs to file or hide or burn at the storm-center of emergency where there is no coherent narrative. With no accounting of my hours to give black holes gape open in my…
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