Windswept moors and dirty villages, returning home to a place no longer home, love triangles—when my own triangle began. How could this happen, I wondered. I’d been so devout and chaste, like a Hardy character—at the beginning. Eustacia Vye and Clym Yeobright felt even more real to me with my newfound experience, how you can…
Like Paul in the Bible you said. No morethe Chad we knew. Can’t call it a surprise.You never stuck with anything for long. LittleLeague teams or foster homes where others quicklyfilled your place. It’s only fitting for “Paul” to havea new wife, kids. School district free from skidmarks you left from a burnout in front of…
a tangle of wings and abdomens slappingthe windowpane. My first instinct was to annihilate them. My next instinctto pamper them, to lay out a buffet of egg-enticing garbage, the shriveledstrawberries languishing in the fridge put to use at last. I wanted to learnto regard the divine not with ambivalence, but the insouciance of my dog’sgroggy…
R. F. Fortune, Sorcerers of Dobu (1932) They say he slept with his wifeLast night—but did he sleepWith his wife or was sheFar away? With an empty skinBy his side he slept. It looks for sure like he sleptWith his wife, but who’s to sayThat was her by his sideAnd not the hide she leftAs away she…
surprise: “Hear that off-key trill? Be still, my heart,”she whispers just before she belts out heraria and it’s like God is right therebefore her in the vision of her sweetheartrising from the grave. At the premiere, her partwas played by soprano Malvina Schnorrvon Carolsfeld; Tristan, by Ludwig Schnorrvon Carolsfeld, who would soon departfrom this world…
Let’s start at the very beginning.A very good place to start. Nothing but a hum. That’s howit goes. Expecting a thought, getting an ellipsis. In the morningmy son thrills at flipping the light on, then off, then on, then off again.Shrieks of joy, then on to the next adventure. Jump-starterof sparks. Where is the light?…
Behind the saints & other tchotchkes, behind the urnstill waiting to receive me— I’ve slipped the summer I scoured Europewith my Death. When I was Death’s best mount, the maremade biddable. Soft-mouthed. Eager to be ridden. In widow’s crepe, how ferociously I courted him,how gladly I amused himin a gown too girlish, the old scums…
When sadness settlesin, more intractable than usual—when it takes more pains to make itselfknown— I tell my sisters not to worry.I will garden the sadness away. I decideon a raised bed, staining the cedar planksI stack into walls that form a newlack. I order loam and compostthe man with the pickup calls gorgeous. Do we…
Long before Francis,St. Isaac of Syria welcomed creaturesgreat and small. My kind of saint,he said that Hell might not last—Godcould end it. What if Isaachad stepped in, held his hand upto my father, said No! Stop! Would Istill be this tree split by lightning,sending out shoots of greenagainst all odds?
No products in the cart.