Her pale square face looks out like Fate— through a dark kerchief clipped under her chin with a narrow, elegant pin; you can make out a white headband under her shawl; her jacket and skirt cut from the same coarse dark cloth. The uneven stitches of her hem hand-sewn— dark leather men’s shoes sticking out….
translated by Laura Rocha Nakazawa That night, the wind was a lament, a daring wound above the voice of the sea. That night, someone called me amid deep darkness to take me to the Melah, the Jewish quarter. Inebriated, I walked, covered in white tulles to protect me from the fine and savage sand. Alone,…
The way, at last, a sloop goes sailorless and bobs at the dock, swathed in darkness, the way waves swell and, swelling, slay themselves— water, whatever you want, I want to want that. A nickel’s in the till, then it’s not, it’s in a pocket, forgotten, and the pocket’s in a laundry chute. A puddle’s…
Never weaned from anger (the stars incline but do not require), left alone she thinks hard thoughts mean as snow at harvest: home is paradise to cats, hell for wives, she thinks, are all babies slippery? boys hate old men, but women despise them: she thinks, bed full of bones, and bad usage aggravates the…
In 2003, Edward Hirsch left his eighteen-year teaching post at the University of Houston and moved to New York City to become the president of the John Simon Guggenheim Memorial Foundation. At the time, his decision to accept such a position surprised many of his colleagues and students, who knew him as a generous, passionate,…
Molly’s father was a physicist, and not the garden-variety kind. He had been in one of Orion’s college textbooks as the Eisenstat Principle of something or other. Matter? Motion? Orion didn’t remember, although it was assumed he knew which. The Eisenstats assumed many things. "I take it the two of you are planning to get…
Once thought to be extinct . . . lives at depths of up to 1,500 feet . . . dies of shock when brought to the surface . . . almost nothing is known about it . . . —National Geographic I saw you in a book: bubble-eyed and staring, mouth spookily aglow with a…
Out on the front lawn, Melinda was weeding her father’s garden with a birdlike metal claw when a car drifted up to the curb. A man with brown hair highlighted with blond streaks got out on the driver’s side. He stood still for a moment, staring at the house as if he owned it and…
If memory were easy, I wouldn’t care for it: Not the poorest truth, the hard-won winter Darling, without a single trick of light or Cloud light-burred and blurred for light green Air to play on. Worse the flirty silliness: The soft, lost summer lies. The hedonist Inheritance: Pressed like a nymph to faun On flesh…
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