Black drape like a solid shadow, as if the shade won’t slide from her. Veil, abstracted hair lifting on the breeze. Around us heels, furs, and scarves like swatches of Las Vegas, a twitch of liner on a pair of eyes, men in the cut of coats, the usual, long-faced inspection…
One morning beginning to notice which thoughts pull the spirit out of the body, which return it. How quietly the abandoned body keens, like a bonsai maple surrounded by her dropped leaves. Rain or objects call the forgotten back: the droplets’ placid girth and weight; the dresser’s lack of ambition. How strange it is…
Growing Up Rich was my fifth novel. It was published in 1975 by Little, Brown. Up until then, my novels had surfaced briefly and were immediately forgotten. I don’t know how he came across it, but James Randall, who was one of Ploughshares’s several editors way back then, decided he liked my novel and wrote…
Excerpts from a co-editor’s journal and from letters to Tess Gallagher: Letter, April 25, 1986: I’ve been reading until I’m nearly cross-eyed, so I’m taking a break to walk to the mailbox, having followed your wise suggestion and bought my very own postal scale-weighs up to five pounds-on sale at Arvey’s. At the moment, it…
Ploughshares Vol. 2/1-the issue that I edited-was published twenty-seven years ago. Contained in its pages are the markings of a very specific period in Boston, including a line drawing of Peter O’Malley sitting in the Plough and Stars, cap pulled low, newspaper raised, and notices for the Grateful Union Bookstore, Guinness stout, and Emerson College’s…
All bend in one wind.
Little Kaiser, the parrot in our local headshop’s sidewalk cage, confronts an unceasing daily stream of whistles and coos and hellos, waspish buzz of film on auto-wind, the sudden, minor lightning of a flash. He doesn’t seem to mind. Not a headshop exactly: years ago the police swept away the ranks of bongs and rolling…
I remember standing in the kitchen, stirring bones for soup, and in that moment, I became another person. It was an early spring evening, the air California mild. Outside, the eucalyptus was bowing compulsively over the neighbor’s motor home parked in the driveway. The street was quiet for once, and all the windows were open….
As if the names we use to name the uses of buildings x-ray our souls, war without end: Palace. Prison. Temple. School. Market. Theater. Brothel. Bank. War without end. Because to name is to possess the dreams of strangers, the temple is offended by, demands the abolition of brothel, now theater, now school; the school…
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