“The poem is a sort of animal.” —Ted Hughes I give him words to tell me who he is. He gives them back, begins a visual discourse on invisibility, gunning by me a film in snippets & jump-shots, starring him. Light flashes everywhere. But you can still make out frames that form a…
One moment, the mountain is clear in strong morning sunlight. The next, vanished in fog. I return to Tu Fu, afraid to look up again from my reading and find in the window moonlight— but when I do, the fog is still there, and only the ancient poet’s hair has turned gray while a single…
You’re a beautiful woman, sweetheart,” Edwin Friend began. His girlfriend, Bobbie Kaplowitz, paid attention: Edwin rarely spoke up and complimented her. He tipped his chair against her sink and glanced behind him, but the drainboard wasn’t piled so high that the back of his head would start an avalanche today. He took a decisive drink…
His beautiful daughter was attending church. He sat with tea and limp tortilla chips watching the rain. Not feeling left in the lurch by things, but wondering at the odd ellipse. Surely she wasn’t enamored of the pale Galilean on the shore; —apocalypse yet further from her mind. She could inhale the fumes of fellowship…
Say a calling knocks you out of sleep, draws blood, is accessible only by water. Say you believe you own your life but you have looked away and your absence has already begun. You struggle out patched together by medication and makeup scaling the broken cadence, the frost-heaved lanes, walking papers clenched to your chest….
After I got married and became the stepfather of two children, just before we had two more, I bought it, the bright blue sorrowful car that slowly turned to scratches and the flat black spots of gum in the seats and stains impossible to remove from the floor mats. Never again, I said as our…
Excerpted from his article “Ploughshares: Breaking New Ground in Literary Magazines,” which was published on January 19, 1982, in The Boston Phoenix: My first contact with Ploughshares came in 1974 with Vol. 2/3. The coordinating editor was David Gullette, director of drama at Simmons College and one of the charter members of Ploughshares. Gullette was…
The shadow of a falling bird against a building is more real than the bird. Shadow of a glioblastoma on an MRI is not real at all. It will be short and brutal, the doctor says. She sees the shadow of her head on his shirt, sees a framed photo of the shadow of a…
Any afternoon on the brink of extinction there they were: lolling in the canopy, loud-mouthed with abandon, red-cheeked, eating the topmost leaves. Where the monkey prospered, the Ghana forest now slumps into stillness, the way a dying man suddenly sees something in the distance and gives it his complete and stony attention. I can’t ponder…
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