Yusef Komunyakaa speaks in a gravelly Southern baritone, tinged with a Cajun flavor that reflects his childhood years in Louisiana. He is a man who chooses his words carefully, splicing his speech with long silences, until his conversation resembles something close to a jazz riff — very fitting for this acclaimed poet who says “oral…
1. Now that the Summer of Love has become the moss of tunnels And the shadowy mouths of tunnels & all the tunnels lead into the city, I’m going to put the one largely forgotten, swaying figure of Ediesto Huerta Right in front of you so you can watch him swamp fruit Out of an…
Mama’s eyes are turning to clouds, she forgets the way to the grocery store, broccoli rots inside the bread box. Some days she does not know me, these shoulders she’s sponged in the river, the baby hands she taught to hold water. Unpinning her cinnamon-roll plaits, she’s chasing light-bugs for diamonds and playing pity-pat with…
Anne Bernays and Justin Kaplan, The Language of Names: What We’re Called and Why It Matters, nonfiction: Bernays and Kaplan present a fascinating and very readable account of names and naming in contemporary society, touching on class structure, ethnic and religious practices, manners, and everyday life. (Simon & Schuster)
Because we cannot be together we live in six notes of Vietnamese where no one can understand us except those who speak in tongues and the language of birds Because we cannot be together we boil the root of the telephone cords torn from the black soils of sleep hold negatives up to the light…
for Chris I’m a penny fallen from heaven’s corner pocket, anybody’s overcoat, pick me up and I’ll bring you all kinds of luck. I’m a fence burning down, love locked in a box, I’m a map of hand-me-down tomorrows, the last but one, or anywhere you never wanted to go, but now. I’m a clock…
Robert Boswell, American Owned Love, a novel: In his fourth novel, Boswell examines the unique border culture along the Rio Grande, unforgettably weaving together disparate people-Anglos, Mexicans, lovers, children-as they wade through this particular world’s infinite possibilities and strangeness. (Knopf)
I am the blue woman stroking a beaded earring searching for the right song at the red light blue woman, 107 degrees, mesquite trees fingering the winds skirts of dust blown back like Marilyn Monroe I am the blue woman wanting a new lipstick some comprehension of Rwanda an hour of silence so cool and…
We were both sitting in old-fashioned green metal lawn chairs that rocked back gently on metal tube frames if you wanted them to, and I did. I rocked as I sipped the strong, lemony tea up through the straw, hoping Mrs. Eelpout would tell me a story. She was sniffling, still getting used to the…
No products in the cart.