jst after making love by a small and nameless stream she misses Pine Street wb All day in bright sun Willow leaves Reflect upon the water. jst two deaf kids walking down the hall – their hands flutter the way words flutter wb Car window down Autumn leaves on the driver’s seat Going places.
On a dense day damp with drizzle on my way to get the mail I walk by the barn where the horses are grazing as usual. They don’t look up, but slowly all three edge closer to the fence to smell my new green umbrella. Grassy mouths and hay breath. Behind them the cobwebbed barn …
My Mother never sent anyone to hell what did she know of hell instead she sent them back to Mozhel Bovitz the place they had obviously come from Mozhel Bovitz where the plain girls of Minsk are sent to learn how to be homely and where the simple boys of Pinsk serve out their apprenticeship …
I. Samuel Beckett is stabbed in the chest on a side street in Paris, by a notorious pimp named Prudent. A stranger finds him, gets help, visits him in the hospital. I can’t go on, I’ll go on, he murmurs, delirious. Soon after, he marries the stranger. The sun shone, having no alternative. II. Beckett …
Boys don’t make passes at girls who are fascist, my grandmother said once. She’d been drinking so up came the war. Her voice took on an edge, Mid-Atlantic and mean like a newsreel announcer relishing the body count of enemy dead. She described her stationery, the many stacks tucked alongside sprigs of lavender in an …
Highway 18 runs past the Canton grain elevators to Hiawatha Golf Club where the restrooms read: “Braves” and “Squaws.” Mid-fairway lies a graveyard—fenced— sunken remains of 120 men and women who died at Hiawatha Asylum for Insane Indians. The city bought the old Asylum grounds with stipulated “recreational use.” No mention of sacred ground on …
The Doberman across the alley is at it again, so I get up to shout. Clouds have gathered. Thunder raises its hammer just overhead; two halogen lamps lean over the alley, flickering brightness. His head peeks out from the doorway of his flimsy house, bending each time that long, electric finger descends from the sky, …
Because it tasted so good last night tonight I cooked it again: linguine alla puttanesca, spicy with hot peppers, garlic, anchovies and black olives and again we ate too much, sopping up the sauce with crusty bread, drinking the same dark wine, listening again to Billie Holiday sing “It Had to Be You” and “Sleepy …