It seemed almost a joke those first few days, / our handsome soldiers yawning with ennui. / When Bismarck sneered “The Paris bourgeoisie / will break after a day without eclairs,” / we laughed. Then had a day without eclairs.
“Madame L. Describes the Siege of Paris,” by Beth Ann Fennelly Read More »
He saw teenagers carrying flammable cans / of kerosene and boxes of wooden matches, torching / the discarded carcasses of Fords and Chevies, / spreading flames through abandoned buildings / and unused factories, lighting one-story houses / on narrow lots in small neighborhoods.
“Devil’s Night” by Edward Hirsch Read More »
“I generally work because I am struck by something that someone has said. Playwriting is an oral art; it’s not an art of a writer expecting to be read but a writer expecting to be heard. And so I think that if I hear a character speaking, either one I’ve invented or one I’ve confronted, it starts a process of creating which I can’t control or even describe properly. If I could describe it I probably wouldn’t do it.”
An Interview with Arthur Miller Read More »
The dentist held out his hands, which trembled in the sharp autumn air. He was tall, silver haired, with a neck curved from years of bending over his patients. He looked like one of his instruments — the curved mirror, or the explorer, with its gently hooked tip.
“Milt and Moose,” by Eileen Pollack Read More »
My uncle killed a man and was proud of it. / Some guy with a knife came at him in Flatbush / and he knocked the fucker to the ground. / The sidewalk finished the job. // By then he’d survived two wives and / a triple bypass. He carried the plastic tubing in his pocket / and would show it to you, to anyone. / He’d unbutton his shirt right there on the street / to show off the scar.
“The New World,” by Chana Bloch Read More »
Every two feet, a pair of calla lilies
covers a tack pinning a cream satin ribbon
to the church wall. Every now and then
over the past twelve years, the groom has
backed me up against a wall.
“Festoon,” by Catie Rosemurgy Read More »
The day that they stole her tiger’s-eye ring
was the day that she became a tiger.
She was inspired by advice received from Rilke
who recommended that, if the business of drinking
should become too bitter,
that one should change oneself into wine.
“On Becoming a Tiger,” by Lorna Goodison Read More »
Must’ve been a time of contagion somehow he’d picked up like hepatitis C this morbid fear of dying young and his “organs” being “harvested” ribcage opened up, pried open with giant jaws you’d hear the cracking of the bones deftly with surgical instruments the organs spooned out blood vessels, nerves “snipped” and “tied” your organs packed in dry ice, in waterproof containers to be carried by messenger to the “donor recipient” this sick-slipping-helpless sensation in his gut like skidding his car, his parents’ new Audi they’d trusted him with, on black ice approaching the Tappan Zee bridge deep in the gut, a knowledge of the futility of all human wishes, volition
“Donor Organs,” by Joyce Carol Oates Read More »
“Blue wash. The winged horses look
like horses—artless, free
of connotation. They hide
just now their wings,
or they forget, or do not
think to make
much more of a gift
for flight than
of the water viewable
behind them–“
“Return to the Land of the Golden Apples,” by Carl Phillips Read More »
But the job, like the others, had its pleasures. When a voice did answer to the name on the list it seemed to Caroline a piece of luck, and to use a false identity was a wonderful novelty. She was Betty Brown. She had heard of actors who were nervous stammering people while offstage but who became fluid and confident once concealed behind the mask of a character. Now she knew how they felt.
“Betty Brown Calling,” by Michael Byers Read More »
