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In 1990, Christopher Tilghman published his first book, a collection called In a Father's Place. It was an auspicious debut, the stories lavishly pfaised for their narrative eloquence and emotional weight. Tilghman was featured on the cover of The New York Times Book Review with three other writers, under the banner "New Guys on the…
When I think of you, you disappear in stages, As if I were paralyzed below my heart And wore, like a blanket, a thousand pages Of you on my lap, who come apart In the slightest wind, and disperse Like leaves. I trade you for the universe, Which holds me back When I lean over…
Like that answer written on a trip that after makes no sense, we remember before birth, but cannot force it to the clumsy breath of this wet hurt of a joy we are now. So let that big boy go and find your tribe to ride with. We spilled the apple juice long ago. I…
We are proud to announce Allison Joseph as the 1992 recipient of the John C. Zacharis First Book Award for her poetry collection, What Keeps Us Here, published by Ampersand Press. The annual $1,500 award — which is named after Emerson College's former president and funded by philanthropist Eugenia Gladstone Vogel — honors the best…
On the Schuylkill Expressway, in the midst of a snarl of traffic, a truck from N.Y.C. pulled up alongside, with red filigree appearing through a film of grit in swirls like an ice cream sundae: “Coconut Don Fu Delight,” the fading billboard explained, evoking “tasteless bean curd with a white chewy sweetness of caramelized coconut,”…
Peeking for hours into the fire, I find the faces staring back— marching cities rise and fall. Still as stone I sit, practicing death. My machine of flesh hangs lightly. Our body’s noise keeps us sleeping. Later we arise into dreams, and awake to Jacob’s ladder. At death we graduate. There the slow-mo stomp of…
We lost a very good friend, Richard Yates, on November 7, 1992. He died of emphysema and of complications from minor surgery in a Birmingham, Alabama, veterans hospital. Though largely unknown to the public in recent years, Dick Yates's reputation among writers was nonpareil. Robert Stone called Yates one of the best writers in the…
I had a boyfriend my sophomore year of college who wanted to marry me. After we graduated, of course. We were both enrolled in small private schools in North Carolina, his for boys, mine for girls (we were not yet men and women). Unlike me, Bill already knew what he wanted to be: an orthopedic…
Coach looks at the scoreboard, tries again to press another loss in the backcourt of his brain. The players feel their blood quiet, return to its common wander. The fans shake their heads like tired dogs, put on their coats, hats, gloves, leave the bleachers, head back to what’s always there. The cops shrug, step…
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