Ambahy—konantitra, I cannot comprehend this power that you wield. . . The power of death’s morbid attraction, of the will to turn toward anarchy, toward a world where nothing is sacred anymore, where nothing has more power than its own form . . . I do not know. Intense desire for emancipation . . .
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She’s sure she can’t be dreaming, becuase she can feel Nora’s hand on hers. The touch is light, barely there, but the cold bracelt is enough to bring her into the morning, back into the colorless room.“Aunt Peggy,” Nora whispers. “You’re having a bad dream.” The tops of Nora’s fingersgraze her forearm, . . .
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It is not insistent. It is not desperately clinging to the is, the are. It is familiar with the dusk.(I write, “It is familiar with the dusk,” words.) It does not call Do you believe, do you believe.—from “A Meadowlark in Arrow Rock, Mo.” Volume 63, Issue 3 (Fall 2022) Tell us about . . .
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I will try to put this in perspective in the coming weeks. Heading down to Ocean Road Beach just after sunrise, standing at the water’s edge, looking toward the horizon for signs of calm and peace, I’ll interpret an overhead blue heron as postive harbinger, a far-off tanker as portent of stability.—from . . .
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At the university where I worked part-time the most it would cost $700 per month for just my health insurance, much more for my family. This university owned like a quarter of the city. Maybe you could get your BA in landlording. Trump is one of their best-known alums. In those years . . .
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Garnet like the edges of Bible pages—no, not that dark, think brighter, more sacred, less symbol of hatred, moreof the revered called to repair this land’s flag bothered ragged by those cured with the devil’s mark—from “Hydra,” Volume 63, Issue 3 (Fall 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.Not . . .
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Author Photo by Andrea D’Agosto In the whale’s spout, a rainbow.In my daughter’s hair, a rainbow hairtie.In the holy, holy. Holy, holy.In a diamond’s carbon-shape angles.In each eye, a stone reflected,a sore.—from “In Morning,” Volume 63, Issue 3 (Fall 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.When I was . . .
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When I was small likea selfish ideaI would pick pieces of his hairoff my smooth girl-bodyswollenin the dark placeswhere he had become light—from “Triptych,” Volume 63, Issue 3 (Fall 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.After a long hiatus from writing after high school, I took it up . . .
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For years, Sue and I would collapse into hystericsif one of us said “Stuttgart.” We didn’t have to say“Mercedes factory” or “bedroom” or “Mom.”Just “Stuttgart” was enough to set us off,—from “Stuttgart Revisited,” Volume 63, Issue 2 (Summer 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.If I skip over . . .
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I try and go back to the bottomof the placid blue lake, or maybethe storm’s calm eye. This is how I bargainfor your love in my mind, like a child.—from “Chiaroscuro after Caravaggio’s Paul,” Volume 63, Issue 2 (Summer 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.In 5th grade . . .
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