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Contributors’ Notes

EDITORIAL BOARD Directors Peter O'Malley DeWitt Henry Coordinating Editor James Randall Editorial Staff David Gullette Paul Hannigan William Corbett Katha Pollitt Art Director David Omar White CONTRIBUTORS ALBERTINE is currently building his own dome in Griswold, Connecticut. He studied under Minor White, graduated from Rochester Institute of Technology, is working on his Masters at M.I.T….

The Poem of Disintegration

Look at me. Turn around. It’s four — thirty Saturday afternoon & this sick loose light that’s coming through the window wants to fall apart. It’s time for me to leave; & Christ, love, if I’ve got to go, this is the time. Pick up the books & help me divide the dishes, the glassware,…

Song

for Leonidas Zenakos Mama Crow makes her nest with feathers and twigs Mama crow counts her eggs and finds some missing Mama Crow preens her neck Mama Crow bleeds her breast -her husband drags out a corpse crowing “Lunchtime, lunch!” At 5 she has her coffee at 7 meat-pie at 8 she builds prisons at…

There Are So Many Fatherless Children Around

“I never could stand you too long,                              don’t you know,”      a definite blockage                        concrete application. The Graces are three Negro                        bims walking down Columbus Ave.      or a woman’s laughter from                        Shaker Heights or Santa Barbara.      He never could forgive himself,            …

In June

The old man wasn’t thumbing but I picked him up. He wasn’t growing a beard, just didn’t shave and his sack, Army duffle and white, bulged with all he owned. He apologized three times for the space he was taking and he hated women. Story after story he told of waitresses who said no when…

Five Women

Five women, talking while spring came: petals of the hand; the whispering of rain. One talked of loneliness; sudden alarm: four startled deer leapt into the distance. One measured the spirit the length of the night, a seismograph charting the rising of tremors. One of her husband thought always/his absence, her heart sheathed in grief,…

Voice From Danang

After we had burned on the water a while, amid the chopper-borne shouts, flares, and thrashing rope ladders, we put into quiet, dark rooms. I couldn’t touch you through my walls – my nails screeled into chines. Why had they bored lights in me like that? You must have known we were set on sand….