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Just as, a stand of trees before you— you now sit turned sideways, on a trail rock, incidentally, listening to see what comes up, down, or out, if you do manage to contain your clumsy sighs, your leafy rustles—to pass the time you idly eye up one far pine to where a birch crosses it,…
When asked about the role of martial arts in his life, Madison Smartt Bell replies that it gave him the opportunity to be bad at something. To those of us who have followed his career as a writer, it’s something of a relief to know that this might actually be true. In sixteen years he…
Of A. Of the abracadabra triangled below the navel’s amulet. Of the underworld still with me as I drive all night to you following a red Trans Am, my beacon and talisman. Before me the mysterious lands of corn and soy. Behind me our Atlantic’s salty winds. O glorious Susquehanna and wild grasses! Here in…
The third time we made love the magic was already gone. We should have stopped right there, but instead we moved into an apartment, adopted a cat you named Pharaoh, and took a long car trip to the mountains. By then the circus was in town. A handful of tough-looking dwarves in black leather drank…
Think of the word “spires” or the word “aspires,” and you see ascendance, a reaching, a rising up, a breathing upon, a breathing into life — you hear the word “spirit.” Elizabeth Spires’s work seems deeply linked with all the facets and motives of these words associated with her name. Even in her first book…
I. Ancient Playground I’m standing idly by while Denis or “Dino” McCarthy (him of the wire-rimmed specs and the hair like a set of loosening springs) unzips his army pants, extracts his penis, and pisses stoutly into Chuck Gilheany’s brown quart bottle of flattening Bud. He sleeps for now but soon will wake and…
Katherine, Katherine, Katherine, Katherine. Black hair, small cold eyes, whom you loved. Cocktease Katherine, chewer of souls. The door blew open and she blew in, a ghoul. Black air, small cold wind, taking everything. Fish-eater Katherine, whose nails dig blood. I’m going to call her pinch-cunt, pickle-lip piss-dribble, shit-smear, goat’s-meat breath. I want to throw…
Madeline DeFrees, Double Dutch, poems: A limited-edition chapbook of DeFrees’s poems that has been published in honor of this esteemed writer’s eightieth birthday. (Red Wing)
Mr. Tao had outlived his wife but that didn’t bother him, he always said. In time he would catch up to her in heaven. Each day he waited calmly in his chair. The winter light moved square by square across the tile floor. On Friday afternoons when I came by he looked at me through…
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