* I 1 Dear little insect —they called you Mosca, I don’t know why— this evening as I was reading Deutero-Isaiah in the near-dark you reappeared beside me; but you didn’t have glasses, you couldn’t see me, and I couldn’t recognize you in the dusk without their glitter. 2 No glasses or antennae, poor insect,…
There was in the corner of the living room an album of unbearable photos, many meters high and infinite minutes old, over which everyone leaned in the joy of mocking the dead in frock coats. A worm began to chew the indifferent frock coats and chew the pages, the inscriptions and even the dust of…
"Talent," Robert Blaine said in his slow, invalid's voice, "is simply a matter of knowing how to handle yourself." He relaxed on his pillow; eyes gleaming, and shifted his skinny legs under the sheet. "That answer your question?" "Well, now, wait a minute, Bob," Jones said. His wheelchair was drawn up respectfully beside the bed…
On Boul Miche Idling at the curb In a rented car, Ready to go. But I have forgotten something! It’s my hat, of course: “Of all things Why would Daddy forget His darling hat?” I leave the motor running, Bolt through the great doors And past the concierge. Horns are blowing Out there where I…
I make an elephant from the little I have. Wood from old furniture holds him up, and I fill him with cotton, silk, and sweetness. Glue keeps his heavy ears in place. His rolled-up trunk is the happiest part of his architecture. But there are also his tusks made of that rare material I cannot…
Houses. She has a gift for houses, she sees what they might be, and beneath her tanned and capable hands, they become what they might be, their possibilities are realized. When she house-hunts, which she has done too often to suit her, she stalks the right house, want ads circled, realtors in tow like native…
Chicory and queen anne’s lace line the way And orange day lilies, spread From the yard of some long vanished cabin. The statue of a button-eyed brown rabbit (When I am almost on him) Comes to life And leaps, excited and light-hearted, Into the brush. The lane is walled With dogwood of course and judas…
(from Contos de Aprendiz) I was born on a July afternoon in a small town called Turmalinas, which had a jail, a church and a school, all near each other. The jail, with its peeling wall, was old. God only knows how the prisoners inside lived and ate, but it held an inescapable fascination for…
MASTHEAD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editors for This Issue Tim O'Brien DeWitt Henry Henry Bromell Associate Editors James Randall Ellen Wilbur CONTRIBUTORS HENRY BROMELL'S book of stories, The Slightest Distance, was the 1974 winner of the Houghton Mifflin Literary Fellowship Award. He has been teaching at the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop. DEIRDRE…
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