I want to report to you that in my name, SUE ANN OWEN, I have found the word SNOW. I can also spell out without much trouble the animals that dare to live there, SWAN, EWE, and that old SOW, though the SNOW makes it quite cold for them. This is not to mention the…
“O Marcel,” she says to me, “O Marcel, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired of swimming about here.” A gale from her shoulder left me in dishabille. I was in dishabille anyway as I was just back from the kaleidoscopic society. I was just there to salute her…
Long brown fingers on the yellow keys. Fingertips pressed to silent chords, audible only to him. Ivory cool against dry skin. Again, tries; smiles. The click of hammers falling soundlessly. The old man looked up from the piano and grinned. "’I am that I am,’ the Lord God said." Woke up this mornin', blues walking…
All identity is active statement. —George Steiner 1. A file of dated letters and a voice the important survivor agrees at last to your visit, two days for your recorder. What you know, you review, earliest meetings, estrangements, awkward returnings, rumors and echoes of rumors, questions, a desire to breathe that air. Finally hours of…
for Dawn Chin, a student from Korea You're barely twenty. Your last essay for me begins: “Until I realized the value of life, I sure went through a lot of anguish of the heart.” All our Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays together, I put in of and the and couldn't explain why we say, “I tried to…
June 4, 1977 A falling star, or worse, a planet (true or bogus) may thrill your idle eye with its quick hocus-pocus. Look, look then at that locus which doesn't deserve sharp focus. * * * There frowning forests stand decked out in rags and tatters. Departing from point ‘A,’ a train there bravely scatters its…
In a dirt village near Sierra Plata, men who are their own shadows, their own wives, drive flatbeds to the taverns; sweat-stained, with gold dust stuffed in little sacks that dangle along the hard edges, the steel curves of their bodies. Tense as switchblades, they wait for the finger-touch of a woman, a thief, or…
Dipping our shoulders under with each lunge we twelve far-pregnant women stride the shallow children's pool stretching our bulbous bodies out. Blue pool. White light. Late afternoon: the beams surge low and full. “The sun is god.” A dozen heads rock: shrugs pushing the shimmer of round into flat. Each color tends to color the…
Please don't take the cemeteries. We can't sleep when the dead fidget in air, their frantic fingers hushing the wind. We'll give bread, or pastures, even the trees tucked into themselves like frightened children. But please don't take the cemeteries. For each stone there is a blossom, a tear, an empty room where someone waits…
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