Article

  • Breakfast at the Track

    for Annette It’s just seven. A heavy mist hangs around the track like an old gambler with a fat wallet waiting for a first glimpse of the day’s horses. And the animals try their best to run under it, to run the memory of loss out of their muscles, just to run, as though they…

  • Theater of Operation

    Now he is approaching her retina. Now, moving into the scar tissue impining there he announces like a conductor, the planet they will board — singular passengers crossing an infinite Atlantic with no arrows of land to crack the expanse of water — when the waves grow choppy they will lie on top deck wrapped…

  • The Bicycle

    He held her as she wavered      and grabbed tight to the handlebars,            a woman in her fifties, learning it for the first time,      both of them, I was sure, in love.            Watching them like that, I thought I knew nothing about love,      nor how to be alone.            All that spring he taught…

  • Almost Asleep

    There goes today with its bucket of leaves, its deep blue bottomless sky, the lights switched on at dusk like wishes for night to rise. Now comes sleep and with it my father walking through aspens in Colorado, hands filled with gifts for the horses who carry him anywhere. They are not shy. They belong…

  • Tarentella

    The loops of our two names are woven into a petaled, autonomous shelter. Leisure beneath the veins of the roof, thin green stalks about us. A gathering of six-legged creatures, a long-tailed ichneuman, an ant lion part of the troop. It is noon. The rest of the corps arrives, platoons and divisions, baskets stuffed with…

  • Alan:

    You sprawl in the chair in the midnight kitchen, striking matches in the ashtray, igniting vodka, until the light has fled like a name a family only whispers from the years before Korea and my birth. You rise to pack your canvas duffle on the dressel by my sleeping aunt, though perhaps as you ready…

  • Late Summer Night

    Awakened by fire engines Passing neighborhoods lit by tvs, I watch the old stars Through the window screen, Hear the rustle of blinds and shades In the quiet the sirens leave. Along a one way street Watches in a pawn shop tick And bakers in a factory bake The night air sweet with yeast. Their…

  • Contributors’ Notes

    MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue Donald Hall Managing Editor Joyce Peseroff CONTRIBUTORS Ellery Akers is a free-lance writer and naturalist living in California. Her work has been published in the Harvard Magazine, the Northwest Review, the Aspen Anthology, and Intro 6. Bob Arnold is a Vermont stonemason. His most…