A dusky cloud, a tree, a giant (caught on the line of magnification) deeply whorled hand from the group at the center. A picturesque little house with watersteps and a boat, momentarily forsaken. You can see its boatman down by the lagoon with two others, pointing deeper into the painting with a shrewd air of…
In all the cathedrals of Europe I’ve seen only one smiling angel, feathered wings like the others, blasted by war. She’s famous not only because she’s smiling but because of the smile. It might be that the harvest is fine, but I don’t think so: too much reflected mischief in her face. As if a…
Take away death, the last enemy—; and my own flesh shall be my dear friend throughout eternity. —Augustine Watching myself, naked, in the mirror—; My penis thickens, erect. For what? It Is the mind bleeding through the body Into the light. The…
My mother was dying. I didn’t know that, didn’t know why I couldn’t be at home when she had left the hospital to be there. He would take me to Lucile’s and leave me and I’d hate it. I’d worry that I’d have to stay and go on living there like one of hers, like…
“In business you have to know people. . . Try selling frozen pizza in the North End—it’s like shoveling shit against the tide; the more `ethnic’ the neighborhood, the more they like to start from scratch. Everything fresh! Wait a generation, they’ll change. . . Then, move in.” * * * “Are you saying it was…
I still love Ruta Beautiful Ruta The girl I never met In the bathtub I’m always humming The melody of a song I never heard Even now I taste The pastries I never ate At that garden café In Vienna Each morning I rise And watch my corpse Resting on the bed
Doniphan Louthan, 1920-1952 I do not remember the day you disappeared. I was too young to understand, still small enough to curl up in your hat. When I questioned mother years later, she told me you had gone to heaven, but I knew better. You were in her heart, and kept it beating by pacing…
It was just after the flood— days, or at most a week. The caretaker’s hut was locked, the windows meshed with wire to keep people, not mosquitoes, out. Poachers’ tracks—the diamondback imprint of tires in mud— stretched under the REFUGE sign to a wooden bridge, splintered by somebody’s pickup or backhoe last March. The bridge…
In mirrors all I see Is my own reflection My table is not a horse Onions are something I eat There is no forest In my cupped palm The sun does not set Past the ridge of my fingers Doors only lead me into The next room When I shut my eyes Blackness surrounds me…
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