And for sure his soul is as good as gone as the frayed ribbon quoting John and now marking a forgotten page in the Analects and at the bottom of the stairs the accumulation of coats in the front closet and now perhaps the need to talk to whoever has rung the bell and rung…
S. P. I say what mist may among pines adrift say what the telling water leaf to leaf falling re counts as if in shorthand as well, too, as what the mockingbird's piccolo picks out repeatedly to keep in her wet yet lofty…
The smell of the hospital worked at John Latham as he rode the elevator up. Childhood fears had been implanted; the hospital air was still always hard for him to breathe. It was not easier this afternoon. The drive had been long and hot enough to steepen his hatred. He really had known better than…
In the kitchen the toaster pops too quickly, the water boils away and something burns, and she turns on herself, a predator breaking a mirror. Door bell jammed with no one there, the screen door sags, its rusted mesh reducing her porch light to squares. People gather and huddle for advice then telephone. Inside, she's…
There was a dance at the black school. In the shot houses people were busy. A woman washed her boy in a basin, sucking a cube of ice to get the cool. The sun drove a man in the ground like a stake. Before his short breath climbed the kitchen's steps She skipped down the…
Shelby Foote is the author of six novels – Tournament, Follow Me Down, Love in a Dry Season, Shiloh, Jordan County, and September September – as well as his magnificent historical work in three large volumes, The Civil War: A Narrative, which is already considered a classic. Mr. Foote lives in Memphis, Tennessee, where he…
Spring here before we thought and you wooden with your daughter's death. I count two facts, coincidental, with a child's irrational fear of the dark, the stern fragility of my own daughter after a bad dream. We keep our quiet economies day after day, moving between office, store, and home, all normal as the ordinary…
Crickets in the basement stairwell (funky with leaf-rot, mildew, sweating concrete) screel a daylong prayerwheel with jays and starlings punctuating that chitinous ratcheting. Summer is winding down. On the mantel downstairs a steadier clucking housed in ceramic, and looking like a linoleum-covered Taj Mahal, releases a cogwheel, whirs, bongs, reminds me of Dallie (Miss Valeria…
After a night of rain like a waterfall, The stony lane that winds up Knocknarea Is a runnel of swift water winding downward. You should wear your Wellingtons and carry a stick. The stones are slippery and the dog at the gate Is fierce and requires a cheerful word in passing. The way up is…
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