Lovers passed us like movie stars. I am trembling but the terror of what I want to do is what beckons me to commit the crime. And every poster in town reveals my craven design. I look for you. There is only vertigo and bile in my throat. Fear: to crawl like a baby lost…
come in light variable and with calm good weather most of the time on the floor of my house silence a round a pond the bush a hush hilldog Bark and horseprint calm cold like a crescent moon a hunter rode alone through snow possessed of supernatural powers composed of rags and tatters Forest closed…
for ms The shadows move on the wall. Rabbits and plums fill the space and the space fills her. It is too easy, he said, you must become the space. Take it inside you, the bootblack sky at night, the bony ocean rising at morning until there is nothing else. I will open the door,…
Table manners are so emotional: These knives reflect the teeth they imitate, Returning us to an uncultured state. The duke across from me is very tall, But not so tall as Dottie (my blind date). Table manners are so emotional These knives reflect the teeth they imitate. The seamstress next to me is very small…
When we were friends my words were colocynth seeds. Our lips were smothered with flies. — Translated by N. Aruri and Carl Senna
EDITORIAL BOARD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor Fanny Howe Editorial Staff David Gullette Philip Schultz Jane Shore Ellen Wilbur Contributing Editors James Randall Art Director David Omar White CONTRIBUTORS NASEER ARURI (who supplied the literal translation of Mahmoud Darwish's poetry) is Visiting Professor at the University of Kuwait and Chairman of the Political…
My mother babbles. A salad of noises: “You know who this is?” asks my aunt and I dread some horror of an answer, but no, nothing. She rubs her tray instead. “It’s clean,” says my aunt, “the tray is clean. Evelyn, what are you cleaning? Play with your cards, play pishy-posh,” and then she laughts,…
The moon beat like an oyster at his head as he rode, his mare’s flanks hung with seaweed, with sea-green veins, flighting the quicksilver tide for Tintagel. An iron wind sang through his visor, thin grid of vision, of Isolde, of the steel mesh and winch of passion, of Mark with the calculating look of…
My two great-uncles got sent to the state pen at Walla Walla and broke out. Lyle can write, Rex is an addict. They both know how shouts come from the part that’s not ready. They’re laying low in some woods in Oregon, some cabin whose floor must be climbing the walls. In Bremerton, Washington, where…
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