The mismatched, worn plates waited on the table, clouds of steam rose from the kettle of boiling potatoes and condensed on the windows. Mae slid the big frying pan onto the hot front lid and knocked in a spoonful of bacon fat. When the pan smoked she laid in thick pieces of pork side meat….
Organ adrift in a chipped dish, dime- store item at garden's edge, gray glob in golden beer, died last night, one less to slink under the leaves of the fattening squash, eggplant, peppers pushing the flowers, gray matter, matter of fact, phallus without a bone, as the panicked mother said, her new- born's limp, and…
My first impulse is to write a poem of my own, the way Olympic ice dancing makes me want to skate in an indoor arena. Better than anyone, I know where to touch my body, how to tighten long laces and leave earth, how to train on empty ice and prefer it. I can't resist…
In May I can't see dogwood bloom without recalling how it once was huge as hickory till Christ was nailed to one. Since then dogwoods are twisted, small. A legend. A lie. But I can't get it from my mind. That's not the only lie I've seized: I've heard a preacher say the dead, in…
Mountain-tips soften after so much rain, the wild guesses of birds blending with air and the uppermost buds, with a god-like promotion, burst open. Especially beautiful are the brown and drunken bats who nose-dive down the barnside, not quite earth-broken.
The moon so bright tonight that three crows flying low cast shadows like scythes through the cornfield they gleaned months back. The road is dirt-familiar. Fences I know post by post stretch out their strange new selves on the ground. The spruce creak overhead, smoke-soft. Out here, no one around, I sing a little and…
(The Ngas of Nigeria) On the sacred counting string, we call out the names. Raffia, for light in the palms, Ivory, color of bone. Our sons let moon waters drop into their cupped hands, into bowls of wine. Wives chop corn gold as the shoulders of a moon with child. We say light arrives. We…
Man up early. Musk-melon, horse-bean, sno-pea bundled away. Birds looting the lawn. Sliding across our pond two ducks at chess. The horizon injects herself. You cringe, spot the sun stealing oranges from the pockets of mountains. That seed-spitter. Where on earth is the lard-ball you hung on a bough till it swung like a Christmas…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue Derek Walcott Managing Editor Jennifer Rose Office Manager Jessica Dineen Thanks this issue to: Carolyn Shute, Don Lee, Anne Friedman, Doina Iliescu, Ellen Hinsey and Bill Keeney. CONTRIBUTORS Katy Aisenberg teaches at Tufts University and is working on her Ph.D. in English Literature from…
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