“I’m so tired of empty promises I could just blow up,” she said on First Avenue where you knew it was spring because the sirens sound light-hearted, and Holly was drinking her Campari with soda. Personally, I had a Bullshot, and drank it like a man personally on his way to the gas chamber. But…
A baby, transparent blue, crawls up my shoulder, claws digging into me. I gave birth to it. And now I have to take the baby home and show the father. He won’t like it when he sees the film on his son’s eyes, when he sees this blue furless cat as his only inheritor.
Richard Yates was born in Yonkers, New York, in 1926. He graduated from the Avon School in 1944, served in the last years of World War II, and until 1952 worked at a variety of jobs, ranging from newspaper rewrite man to freelance ghost writer to publicity writer. He has taught at the New School…
Each face strikes a different hour in the heart Days last tolling will be your’s (Its profile’s panels on which are sleep-lacquered eyes The golden flights and returns of an unblemished wound) Like a blind person reading smoke signals, I touch The face foretold as your’s (It’s like a boney honey in the sunset, pale…
I know nothing of the soil. I have never dug my hands into the earth or planted a seed. I was eighteen before I saw the Big Dipper. The flowers are like slide rules, alien instruments. No matter what I touch my hands are clean. Now, at night, when my wife and children are sleeping…
I told you all I know holding on to your arm looking in windows city after city whispering, murmuring with whom and when and the way we did it. You smiled. Desperately unzipping my dress at the school for the blind I show a breast, a thigh, mad eyes, while they march by in twos,…
As much as someone could plow in one day They called an acre As much as a person could die in one instant A lifetime — scoot over a little, The greatbig instruments, click up to measure Stress in constellations and in navels everywhere — tremor- Lorn sharp antennaed as lovers’ hissing lips That can…
A painter sat down at his table with a dusty canvas before him. On the other side of his studio, his easels stood like a forest. Each one represented a birthday or Christmas in which a relative had come up with the perfect gift. But because he was the type of artist that liked to…
Sometimes I have to think big, bigger than an airplane hanger, bigger than Lake Erie, bigger than nitroglycerin. When I think that big, I stand in a field and look down for a long time, my crackerbox boots are clumsy continents, I ignore them and look instead at a stone. It is cold, grey and…
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