Ann Mikolowski, 1940–1999 dead/as in center or right Goya titled his paintings of war things like Shouting’s No Good and Nobody Could Help Them Gaundi hung weights to visualize and actualize his works upside down and now strange hands have forced on a brutality that Gaundi never meant no fluidity in somebody’s else’s…
The first thing she finds is a hand. In the beginning, she thinks it’s a tangle of sheet or a wadded sock caught between the mattress cover and the mattress, a bump the size of a walnut but softer, more yielding. She feels it as she’s lying, lazing, in bed. Often, lately, her body keeps…
Jayne Anne Phillips, Motherkind, a novel: With radiant prose, Phillips’s long-awaited new novel portrays thirty-year-old Kate Tateman as she cares for her dying Appalachian mother in Boston while Kate bumps through the birth of her first child and her new marriage. In a single year, she must reconcile profound beginnings and endings. (Knopf)
I’ve wished that I were born a Soviet, so that my presence in America would cause as greatly dignified regret as leads to literary coups d’état— but I am merely Cuban, dark and small as any from a hundred nations which exist for other’s domination. All I say is colonized, if not by rich “protectors,”…
translated by Jonathan Galassi Ravager of lethargies and sorrows, night; safeguard against silences, the age of offhand sadnesses re-buds. And I see boys in me still slender-hipped, on the shells’ slope turn anxious at my changed voice.
Thief of the corn, patch of night against a perfect sky, I see you there watching me with your strange eyes. What message do you bring me? When the leaves fall you’ll be all we have left. Perched above the cemetery walk, you add your two cents’ worth when he reads the part…
Leonard Michaels, A Girl with a Monkey: New and Selected Stories: This collection of Michaels’s fiction from the early sixties to nineties glows with his inimitable style and trenchant perspectives on love and sex. (Mercury)
translated by Jonathan Galassi Choked with white and black roots, cut by the waters, the earth smells of ferment and worms. Sorrow of things I don’t know is born in me: one death is not enough if time and again now the sod weighs its grass on my heart.
To Spain, and not a single day of awe there. The Spanish swans lifting from the river: no ripples. To sit in a spring whose waters offer no prophecy. The not-expected. No one reading your mind. No stopping the light inside the beast from crumbling. Long ago, a fog came to settle on a low…
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