Seeing is forgetting the name of the thing one sees. —Paul Valéry The hatred goes back for centuries, everyone says, a tradition as old as making wine, weaving rugs, playing flutes. My father remarks he would have expected it from the Croats who colluded with Hitler, but…
Zacharis Award Ploughshares and Emerson College are proud to announce that Jessica Treadway has been named the 1993 recipient of the John C. Zacharis First Book Award for her short story collection, Absent Without Leave and Other Stories. The annual $1,500 award — which is sponsored by Emerson College and named after its former president,…
after Akhmatova They had no time—the just man hurried across the bridge, followed God’s magistrate along the black ridge. His grieving wife lagged behind as if she had no will, arms heavy with useless things, heart heavier still. She couldn’t recall if she’d shut the door, turned off the iron; worse guilt, she’d left behind…
for To Nhuan Vy We hold our glasses out, then drink. Two years since the American soldier returned, told how he’d turned his Claymores facing up that night: so the warning, “This side to the enemy,” pointed to the sky. His one small act of protest in the war. He never knew at midnight, a…
Twenty-five years ago a poet from Ireland came to the University of Montana to replace Richard Hugo for a year. Hugo had a Rockefeller and he was going to spend a year in Italy to work on a book of poems based on his World War ii experience as a bombardier, flying missions out of…
How many nurses cared for her needs? The first dressed Bea’s wound, a puckered red mouth silenced with staples. A second nurse brought her a cup of chilled juice to wash away the sour taste in her mouth. A third nurse, a man, massaged her sore back. Then a fourth nurse came in, a small,…
Defending you, my country, hurts My eyes. I see the drums, the glory, The marching through the gory, Unthinkable mud of soldiers’ guts And opened hearts: I want to serve. I join the military, Somehow knowing that I’ll never marry. The barracks’ silence as I shave Is secretive and full of cocks. I think to…
We were excited at the motel when the B.B. King tour bus pulled in but then my mother said “Where did all these colored come from?” She’s eighty-five. That’s how it is in Ohio. No it’s not, that’s how it is in us, that’s why thirty-five years ago in my first year at Cornell we…
Filled with old lovers, in the clutch of the chair, you are a bloom of uncombed hair. With a collection of roses, bowls of mashed petals, I make a clear cup of sky. Fold away clouds. Roll up blankets of blue. I am a body of empty husks. Indian corn is in your hair, the…
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