There is a sweet in it though suite is what they said not taffy wrapped in a paper twist. I don't always hear well or want to and see Chicks Singing in Their Shawls painted on a bread truck. What it might have said I can't think. A sweet in it. A lean professor processes…
1. Ties At the old Hawthorne station my eyes track him on the rails: a double shining. Inside new voices post arrivals, departures and I remember East Cleveland homecomings, familiar trembling on the platform soon to be a stage, my father at center in his unyielding gray tweeds. The rumble at my feet. And I…
There was a great deal of anticipation surrounding the arrival of the new junior-high teacher. Olivia Gibbs: first, because she was new and from the East, which automatically lent her cultural superiority in the eyes of Mosly's self-effacing citizenry; and, secondly, because, from her resume, it was clear Miss Gibbs had travelled widely and would…
The leaves all blaze, a fireplace's commonplace crimson and gold, the vines become scrawls of a letter hidden from someone — parents, your spouse, or other lover — between newpapers in the kindling bin or only accidentally fallen into flames, and, worse, your only memory of the address is vines black upon leaves blackening after…
How should they look, Indians, California Indians, Streaming down the red dirt road, Igneous dirt, past my mother's Family's house? How should they Look in 1922? Should They be dirty, poor, straggly Unfortunate things, hair matted, Dragging discarded fragments Of cloth, clutching beads Of the cheapest gaudiest Glass? Or should they look heroic, Movie version,…
The two men had not met in years. They had never really known one another, except by reputation and through mutual friends. Both had received important prizes and fellowships in recent years, and so they greeted one another now with a certain wariness and tentative respect. Arthur's new home was something of a showpiece, really…
It wasn’t easy, inventing the wheel, dragging the first stones into place, convincing them to be the first house. Maybe that’s why our fathers, when they finished work had so little to say. Instead, they drifted — feet crossed on the divan, hands folded over stomachs like a prayer to middle age. They watched the…
Gambelli's waitresses sometimes got down on their knees, searching for coins dropped into the carpet— hair coiled stiff, lips coated in that hennaed shade of red, the banner-color for lives spent in the wake of husbands dying without pensions, their bodies used in ceaseless marching toward the kitchen's dim mouth, firm legs migrating slowly ankleward….
At the edge of the night road— a dead hedgehog with its grist of hatched viscera. The beam of undipped headlights has crystallized in its yellow eyes. Dead hedgehog and I neither quickening my heartbeat nor slackening my pace.
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