No coat, bad shoes, caught sudden In a spring downpour, a girl scrambles Into a small market on her way Home from school. The old man is alone, Picking bruised apples from a bin, tossing them Softly, one at a time into a slop can. Usually, he chases kids out, having caught them lifting Chocolate…
The Roosevelt Mineral Baths Do you believe the proof is not in the body? In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, John walks among the olive trees by the river, looking for the women who will let him touch their faces with his hands. At night in the park I unwind the…
Tobias Wolff: In Pharoah’s Army: Memories of the Lost War (Knopf), a memoir of Wolff’s Vietnam years.
Angry at my persistent rejection of what he said Was his love, a skinny neighborhood boy Once held his mother’s kitchen knife To my twelve-year-old throat. This comes to mind Today as I walk past a couple of tough teenage boys Near the local high school, dressed in the same Oversized black shirts and backwards-turned…
We squat in the sun, in black dirt abraded from the mountain. You prick my arm with a thorn. “Does it hurt?” It does hurt. We’re playing nurse and mother getting her abortion. You draw out all my blood, then with invisible gauze from your imaginary white enamel tray bandage my sore arm. In her…
John C. Zacharis Award Ploughshares and Emerson College are proud to announce that Tony Hoagland has been named the 1994 recipient of the John C. Zacharis First Book Award for his collection of poems, Sweet Ruin. The $1,500 award — which is funded by Emerson College and named after the college’s former president — honors…
I can taste that tongue for me you’ve set to rubbing in your pocket Like a stone excited cricket, flint you’ll strike when right in moonsteam: blue Glue, apogee, cunt of night. Coyotes, a fire round in a ground. Much hair is all of your black bones suckling Open in my throat all…
Catherina Schrader, midwife, nearly an apparition in mists rising from the Wadden Zee, follows a stranger to his boggy farm. The man is afraid of his wife, her cries, her twisted face. Who knows what may enter a woman and flourish there? There have been stories—monsters with fingers and toes grown together like pigs’ feet…
Louisa Solano We want to salute Louisa Solano, who is celebrating her twentieth year as the owner of the Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square. Throughout that time, Solano has been an invaluable and supportive resource for poets and poetry readers alike, holding book signings, running a reading series, and administering the Grolier Poetry…
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