You are right, but your patch isn't big enough. —Jesse Jackson When a cure is found and the last panel is sewn into place, the Quilt will be displayed in a permanent home as a national monument to the individual, irreplaceable people lost to AIDS—and the people who knew and loved them most. —Cleve Jones,…
MASTHEAD Coordinating Editor for This Issue James Carroll Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Managing Editor / Associate Fiction Editor Don Lee Assistant Editor David Daniel Editorial Assistant Elizabeth Detwiler Copy Editor Mariette Lippo Thanks this issue to: Kathleen Anderson and Bob Soorian; our intern Ivan Kreilkamp; and our readers Billie Ingram, Mariette Lippo, Elizabeth Detwiler,…
I wonder about you: whether the blue abrasions of daylight, falling as dusk across your page make you reach for the lamp. I sometimes think I see that gesture in the way you use language. And whether you think, as I do, that wild flowers dried and fired on the ironstone rim of the saucer…
Under pressure Mick tells me one of the jokes truckers pass among themselves: Why do women have legs? I can't imagine; the day is too halcyon, beyond the patio too Arizonan blue, sparrows drunk on figs and the season's first corn stacked steaming on the wicker table. . . .I give up; why do they?…
It's never been so bad; it's rarely been so good: an assessment of the current state of American poetry. The bad side: circumstances, some economic, some not. Many major book-review and critical journals have almost entirely ceased reviewing books of poetry-at least, poetry by living writers working in English. One rationale given: there are so…
Tom heals best in the dreamless portion where nerves are quiet trees in winter. He opens his eyes in the middle of the night and feels better. He has nothing left: no maps of the way back, no green cry of wild parrots. Morning sleep may carry in its steaming kettle of images—little for the…
I am the daughter who went out with the girls, never checked back in and nothing marked my “last known whereabouts,” not a single lavender petal. Horror is partial; it keeps you going. A lost child is a fact hardening around its absence, a knot in the breast purring Touch, and I will come true….
When I first arrived in this city I heard coins falling through the air like rain, light collecting on dusty sleeves, in gum boxes and tins; the addicts walked by a smoking pail humming into their hands. We hiked one afternoon along the river, picnicked in the ruins of a trolley station and played with…
The Heart wants what it wants— or else it does not care— —Emily Dickinson So still. Not a cricket. In this heat the trees around the house hold motionless even at midnight. I trundle the electric fan, little pool of wind, along with me from room to room, and imagine Emily Dickinson carrying a candle…
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