A cold Sunday morning in early December. The first snow. All night long the sky hung heavy with a locked-in gathering flood. Then at dawn the first snow came. The first snow. Looking at the sky, Rachel, who lives twenty blocks away, sees at dawn the first snow come, drawing a veil between her house…
1. She sits reading the end of Hans Brinker, and tugs faded flannel over her tucked-up feet so no bit of them can show. She hears him yell “Damn you! You've made us late again, will you—” and her mother, something too soft to hear. She holds her breath; relaxes: nothing falls. When the doorbell…
this is the woman sons look for when they leave their wives —Leslie Ullman Husband Again tonight he sees her eyes burning in the common flame. Windows, too, give him her image at strange times. He begins to breathe like the first daffodils punctuating the April grass. The miles to work he dreams: she rides…
Distance doesn't matter. Not dreams of home or morning filtered through a darker pane or the timbre of his voice in every room or blaming every cruelty on the place or letters no longer expected, unreceived or pigeons streaming bloodless through the sky. Only this wafer of unbending light redeemed a song by all the…
1. The upraised arm, first clenched, ready to hit, fist clenched and cocked, ready to throw a brick, a rock, a Coke bottle. When you see this on TV, robbers and cops, or people in some foreign alley, is the rock in your hand? Do you shift and dodge? Do you watch the story twitch…
She carries the garden tools to the hill And starts to beat a hole She finds a garland of roses Full of ears and salvage A shield bush A crown of peas and a glass of juice She has to drink that first Crown the girl! Crown the two of us heart and right arm…
Have we grown old before our time folding our hands without a smile or a piece of bread like monkeys, our faces unrecognizably human? We jump and clap to be cursed and mocked. And when we speak no one pays attention. And when we sleep even a bird can wake us. Israel, 1989
Il temporal foco e l'eterno veduto hai, figlio, e sei venuto in parte dov’ io per me più oltre non discerno. —Purgatorio, XXVII, 127 When a mind goes, how much we never knew goes with it. Always singular, the self in its familiar guises moves among us, breaking bread, spending a Sunday on the Battenkill,…
I lift my hands to my face my hand's the biggest thing around and filled with rivers it has stems I can see through to the dark fuzzy air I hold my hand to my face and down below I feel my legs curl up to my chest I look out at the door of…
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