And then a lighter sorrow sheltered me. For weeks I was under the cloak of an archon then I saw spring, and the spell was broken. Today the woodpeckers are nesting near the ridge. She—the big she—stays all morning in the lichen laurel waiting for them to approach her. She makes her call, “I-am-not-I-am-not” and…
One The angels are sitting on their asses. Their wings are clean. They do not bend to search the straw. They do not think of finding anything buried in the corner. Smooth, cold, white. None are related; they are all angels. Who knows how much they weigh? They do not care to mourn. They are…
In the mornings I get to the mall before anyone else, even the other shop owners. They haven't got the music on yet, and all I can hear as I set up is the plish-plosh of the fountain. Without any flowers covering my cart, you can notice the builder's skill-wooden pegs at the joints, not…
—And the earth was still baffled by the small spaces, especially in spring when people admired its growth from great heights. The earth was baffled by the tiny gaps such as those between minutes. In those places of yearning, as in the emptiness between a child's back teeth, it was trying to decide if there…
It was another round. The cloud's puffed eye. A thumb torn out of the pie. The pie thrown into her face. Not bat a lash. Not lash the fields of whining grass. Not bash the sun into a simpleton. She who made the trumpet gleam and blaze made the smoky cricket weep. He who put…
As an Asian In 1965, when I was nine, my father moved us from Japan to Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He had been an exchange student at Louisiana State University years ago, and now LSU had invited him to be a visiting professor in the agriculture department. We rented an apartment near campus, across the street…
As soon as she cleans her tray, she stops By the office, picks up a grocery bag Marked with her name in red crayon And spends the rest of her lunch cleaning Candy wrappers, twigs, leaves, and other trash From the school's scrubby patch Of front lawn. She does this diligently, No complaints, as if…
Lump of vein Rack of lamb, the lame leg— today—a wing apart from the central thing. I find I found and off the ground O O O awful news. I've feathers and no lift.
MASTHEAD Coordinating Editors for This Issue James Alan McPherson DeWitt Henry Executive Director DeWitt Henry Managing Editor / Associate Fiction Editor Don Lee Associate Poetry Editor Joyce Peseroff Assistant Editor David Daniel Office Manager Jessica Dineen Founding Publisher Peter O'Malley Thanks this issue to: Colleen Westbrook; our editorial interns Janet Choi and Lev Grossman; and…
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