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Last week my head was too small. This week, it is too big. My face in the mirror is a picture of dismay. If I try to correct the disproportion with baggy clothes, I will look not only moonheaded but squat, Charlie Brown-esque. When the head is too small, I fare no better: tight clothes…
On freezing winter nights, the boys had two chores before going to sleep. They had to tie the blankets down to the bed frames so that they would not toss their covers off in their dreams and get frostbite on their hands and feet. And they had to empty their chamber pot so that what…
He wasn’t her first lover, or her best lover, or even her lover at first. He was too gangly, for one thing. There was nothing but leg connecting his chin to his shoes, so it was awkward for her always to be craning up to look at him. Except when he sat down; then, because…
—at Dal Pescatore, Cannetto sull’Oglio, just outside Mantova It’s just as the waiter has brought us a single buttery dumpling stuffed with pecorino, parmigiano, and ricotta that arrives after the porcini mushrooms and the seafood risotto and before the snapper with tomato and black olives and the duck in balsamic…
They kept him alive for years in warm water, The soldier who had lost his skin. At night He was visited by the wounded bat He had unfrozen after Passchendaele, Locking its heels under his forefinger And whispering into the mousy fur. Before letting the pipistrelle flicker Above his summery pool and tipple there,…
As in an illuminated page, whose busy edges have taken over. As in: jasmine starred onto the vine-dense walls, stands of phlox, and oranges, the flesh of each chilled turgid. By herself the sleepwalking girl arranged them: the paper airplanes now wrecked on the vines, sodden, crumpled into blooms which are mistaken all morning for…
Brush of sunlight on the dry grass. These shadows blowing black up the mountain, and elsewhere there is laughing, you are moderate, see, I am there. A noise from inside the neighbor’s window. In the dark drifts you gather— let drop the poor idea— kisses him swiftly and leaves. That we may be increased. Thrum…
By then-1947-I had gone back to Harvard to earn my master’s degree in comparative literature and quickly completed the required credits. Hugely pregnant with my first child, I flunked the Latin exam, for which I was underprepared (the French exam was easy). Harry Levin, who had been my tutor during my senior year, interceded for…
I remember the office on Waverley Avenue in Watertown and the karate studio next door; periodically the floor would vibrate and the walls would thump with energy I like to think we reciprocated. On my first day as managing editor, I remember sorting through hundreds of three-by-five index cards with names of subscribers, none of…
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