for Marie She was in her thirties, a poet, and she was afraid to fly. Her brother was dying in another city. She did not have a husband or children, but she had a job that held her in the city where she lived. Until her brother went home to die, her job was work…
The 1992 Denise and Mel Cohen Awards for the outstanding poem, short story, and nonfiction published in Ploughshares Volume 17 Each of these awards carries a prize of $400 and is made possible through the generosity of Denise and Mel Cohen of New Orleans. The Cohen Awards are nominated and judged by the advisory and…
Off work and going upslope for a look I left the plans—to see the view Their money bought—weighted with a rock, And trampled a path of parted weeds Past pampas, nettles, Poison oak bristling in the breeze, A weathered two-by-four nailed high up in a cedar's fork, A haggard pair of panties waving stiffly from…
After days of drifting, the man arrives at a confluence of doors. Had he been adrift on a river, instead of the ocean, it would seem as if he has encountered a logjam from some long removed past when the virgin forests were being dismantled. Had he been drift on city streets, he might have…
You know the way you hear a voice sometimes, muffled, as from another room, and what you hear is intonation, and you can tell, almost right away, if someone is arguing with someone, or just talking, or making love, or if a child is there, or children. Intonation: the rise and fall of sound and…
The sun widening its skirt, catching the trail the ducks leave as they glide across the water . . . if you belived. . . widening until it's made a window in the wall of cloud, an opening between this world and that other made wholly of light, which we must take on faith. On…
Poa compressa, Canadian bluegrass, grows well in both damp and dry climates, blooms the entire season, won't brown even with a late frost, and is a real royal blue; in the right sunlight it looks painted. The first crop on my brother Nelson's grave has come in thickly, almost plush, and kneeling on it, sliding…
This issue of Ploughshares engages in an old ritual, an occasion that can be confusing to anyone not close to literary careers: literary discovery. What? An issue about discoveries? Columbus? An issue of stories and poems in which someone has to discover something? One of those party-game types of thing? Well, no. This is an…
Fifteen feet from shore a seal's pug head, then slick cigar body jerks up, vanishes under the surface as your voice rises this is why we're here isn't it? Something I forget often and with great accuracy. Until the world jars me— this seal, or, night after the lunar eclipse, when we sailed under a…
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