Found Poem
Recipe For Painting Gates (18th century) Six pounds: melted pitch. Half a mutchkin: linseed oil. One pound: brick dust. Mix well together. Use it warm.
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With Che at the Plaza
Holding my New York Times unfolded in front of me, now and then glancing up with considerable casual effect, as if deeply engrossed in thought, I carefully looked him over. I didn't want him to know that he'd been recognized. Naturally. He was well-groomed, which at first surprised me, but then I quickly understood. His…
The Snail
the night is slow a large snail pulled on a string by the sun on its back it carries all that has been lost as it goes past your house you strap everything in place you retrieve a dusty crate from the rafters of your attic it is empty things are as they should be…
Love Song of Rasheed the Mad Cap
Praise to thee great Allah, For carving my beloved Pure as the sand of Mecca, Rarer than the rose rarest. But Allah, Why you make her princess Beyond reach of servant Rasheed? The suitors are at the palace gate Hankering after my love-bird. Her father the Khaleef Hath proclaimed- Let eet bee Who touches the…
Contributors’ Notes
EDITORIAL BOARD Directors DeWitt Henry Peter O'Malley Coordinating Editor Thomas Lux Editorial Staff Ray Amorosi David Gullette Paul Hannigan James Randall Contributing Editors William Corbett Celia Gilbert Jane Shore Art Director David Omar White CONTRIBUTORS ELLEN BASS lives in Cambridge and has a book coming out from U. Mass. Press. JOE DAVID BELLAMY teaches at…
Short Stories
I am writing my heart out here. In a kitchen, two towns away, my friend Fanny is doing likewise. She sits surrounded by her children like a patient plant. When we telephone each other the children come into our ears like static; stereo commotion: they cling to us like clay. When we sit down to…
The Fingers of the Week
Sunday: broken teacups to replace the brassiere; the old folks have too much to mull over. I guess I’ll cry for them when it seems as though the crying’s good. Monday: old sots in the willows — the dog food will probably last a year, with caution and a fork without tines. Tuesday: break your…
This is How the Bridge Goes Down
Steel arms tired of empty reaching, settle into a bed older than the urge to get across. No one pays attention. Losses are usual, the elements tempered to subtraction. Only giant beams know their own sinking for a tragic sun, eye burning horizons that cover them. Experts may detect a shrinking. Rails rode earlier to…
Lies
1. Always I feel it bloating like a tumor a weight, a shape brushing my thighs as I wade into sleep. The water is warm like my blood flat as a kitchen table my face dances there in sun circles the water is a caress. Then a fin breaks the surface coming fast. 2. You…