MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor for This Issue Lloyd Schwartz CONTRIBUTORS STEVE ALBERT is a poet and fiction writer from California, now living in Cambridge. FRANK BIDART'S books of poetry are Golden State (Braziller) and The Book of the Body (Farrar, Straus and Giroux). He was the Coordinating Editor of Ploughshares 2/4….
my husband looks at me some evenings as if I were about to leave his home. it’s a stolen look one I’ve grown familiar with this last month. it’s there in his eyes over breakfast but more frequently and lingeringly after dinner. he’ll sit in the grey leather chair his legs crossed his flannel trousers…
I have this witch’s dream sitting in a wicker chair in a green garden our friends are sitting there I have on a satin purple slip I love the way it feels on my bare hot skin and god am I even in my inner ear the small of my back don’t tell me I…
Seamus Heaney has been at Harvard University teaching two writing courses during the Spring semester. The interview took place in Cambridge, Massachusetts at Michael Mazur's studio with James Randall and Seamus Heaney seated on a couch, tape recorder between them, and Michael Mazur working on sketches of Heaney for a monotype to be used for…
He is pulling blood in, trying to be strong in the mirror. The word gives him trouble and he pushes it away, wondering, what will come now? who will come? All his adventures are in his mind. The large muscles serve no one. He dreams of Germany and hopes to be a policeman. He would…
Why does a girl love a girl? Why do you still have messages for me? Descending the stairs in the tubercular house every Easter morn Melanie would come upon a group of Quaker women they glided over in drabs and whispered things to her alone in her father’s barn she would tell me this while…
All through that Sunday afternoon a kite flew above the Sunday, a tightened drumhead, an armful of blown chaff. I’d seen it gray and slippy in the making, I’d tapped it when it dried out white and stiff, I’d tied the bows of newspaper along its six-foot tail. But now it was far up like…
She’s like the moon: at perigee his tides are out of whack, his coasts tormented. What was one place is called another, farther in or out than on the charts or in old stories. He rents a plane and flies up in the evening to observe as one might an eclipse, or storm, or nine…
Rain stretches along the heaving avenue— The building and clouds are stacked gray on gray. We avoid the rivers of water until it is useless— The rain is full of clothes. * * * Later in the year the grass and bushes were so dry we hoped a large wind would blow them away. When…
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