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Jen and I were driving through New Mexico with her father, who was a retired insurance guy just a few years older than me, a tall, thin guy with a swatch of white hair that slipped across his scalp as if it had fallen there from a tree. Jen thought this trip would be a…
Her name was Margy, hard g, like aargh, or argonaut. Not soft g like margarine, and if someone called her that, she’d show them her disdain. Sometimes her father did it for a laugh, and she’d have to climb into his lap, press her nose to his, and stare at him until he stopped. She…
I tell you she was here again last night. While the wind scratched at the rafters and we were caught up, fumbling in the nightstand for diaphragm and jelly, while Anna was giving her report from sleep, rolling the heavy words through her crib slats like cannonballs—our next child, the child we will not have,…
Heitman, the queerbait, the insane, is my tentmate. Again. Porter, the fat kid who cries a lot, cried again this morning, saying he didn’t want to tent with Heitman ever again. Last night Heitman put ticks on Porter’s eyelashes while he slept. This morning our Scoutmaster, Casper, had to pluck them off with tweezers, since…
In the cinder-block waiting room There was nothing but canteen machines And a rack of benches. Outside it began to rain. Another passenger came in. He said the girls in the opposite bar Were getting drunk and dirty. Suddenly one stumbled in with her drunken john, Her hair and dress drenched. She tilted Her neck…
short for daughter—it was the best they could do. Dad raised horses near the Sweetwater, selling to miners. February 1st, three feet of snow and the cabin burned down, though the lucky barn was saved. The day I was born, Father bedded Mother in the stallion’s stall, moving Old Bud in with a mare. Mother…
In the late winter of 1985, John Rogan had been a surgeon for almost thirty-five years, and though still active and vital, a tall, erect, white-haired man, with a reputation for audacity matched by success, he was thinking of retiring. His older brother, also a surgeon, had apparently committed suicide the year before. He had…
Philip Levine: The Simple Truth (Knopf), a collection of new poems, of which Harold Bloom says, “I wonder if any American poet since Walt Whitman himself has written elegies this consistently magnificent.”
Back then I still believed it was possible to prevent certain things, until that hot afternoon. It was the middle of grain harvest, August of ’54, when Fred climbed down from his stalled combine and took off for Montrose to buy a part. Later I realized the part was a ruse of fate, like something…
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