As a dog seizes his prey,
having felt the first
thrill of the scent give way in long pursuit
to tedium and frustration, feeling now
the sweet exhilarating rage of capture—
“Likeness,” by Garth Greenwell Read More »
I drew wildebeest on the caves at Lascaux;
I lived a grim life
hunting peccary and maize
in some godforsaken mudhole in the veldt.
“Ode to the Alien,” by Diane Ackerman Read More »
The one sage who escaped the Catastrophe is supposed to be still roaming the airport in various disguises, pretending to be a passport officer, barman or chiropodist, and distributing subversive pamphlets which denounce the allegedly lunatic usurpers of the Control Tower.
“The Control Tower,” by Arthur Koestler Read More »
Here, the trees pay their respects, mourn openly,
wear dreadlocks of hanging Spanish moss
sun bleached ash-blue and swaying; in seawind
they become prayer shawls
salted with dust, grief threads of every kind
“Yom Hashoah in Florida,” by Rick Hilles Read More »
I met Jean Taylor when I was five years old. She was the tallest woman I had ever seen, and she walked slowly, with her head up and her shoulders back, her hips moving like the hips of a slender cat. She wore black slacks and she had big feet which seemed to me very graceful, especially when she wore her straw sandals with the artificial cherries on them.
“The Woman Who Knew Judo,” by Mary Gaitskill Read More »
Somewhere in the world
something is happening
which will make its slow way here.
“Somewhere in the World,” by Linda Pastan Read More »
The people of the neighborhood who were eating their breakfast stopped passing bowls from father to son, from mother to daughter. All eyes followed Famakan, held by the lieutenant’s leash like a dog. Egg yolk ran into his eyes. He tried to wipe his face, but at that moment, the lieutenant pulled the cord taut, and Famakan collapsed into a mud puddle.
“The Lieutenant of Kouta,” by Massa Makan Diabaté Read More »
Pig’s feet helps shrink the uterus,
which after birth is a flabby bag of muscle.
Pig’s feet helps get rid of the old blood.
So I am told.
“Shrinking the Uterus,” by Cathy Song Read More »
It is like a pen held to paper, this story I have to tell, the stain of ink spreading, the color deepening everywhere all at once. And I have no words, no means to make them tell.
“What I Want to Tell: A Sequence of Rooms,” by Michael Martone Read More »
Somehow I never succeeded / in being taken seriously. They made me / wear things that were ruffled: off-the- / shoulder blouses, the tiered skirts / of flouncing Spanish dancers, though I never / quite got the hauteur — I was always tempted / to wink, show instead of a tragic / outstretched neck, a slice of flank.
“Ava Gardner Reincarnated as a Magnolia,” by Margaret Atwood Read More »
