When a man like Silvestre Revueltas goes back into the ground at last, there is a rumor, a wave’s voice and a cry that makes ready and makes known his departure.
“To Silvestre Revueltas of Mexico, In His Death,” by Pablo Neruda Read More »
A boat slips beneath the harbor bridge
a letter that says, by the time you get this,
I will be gone.
“Lorca,” by Bruce Bond Read More »
And the girls are always smiling, their shoulders
encased in graduation black
or bared down to the peeled-back petals of the
prom dress
“Co-Ed Found,” by Sharon Olds Read More »
Even the body, so impossibly tuned and tensioned:
all of us crimped, folded and thrumming just so, they say,
like a trillion trillion guitars or glass harmonicas, tiny
symhonies of sound—so why not metaphysics?
“M-Theory, or, A Piece for Eleven Strings,” by T.J. McLemore Read More »
Everything the old woman said was true.
Then she suffered a heart attack and died in Ruth’s arms.
“Letter,” by Raymond Carver Read More »
In our hands, his life
amounted to vacant housing
taped off, his blood on blacktop
too dark to identify.
“Official Statement,” by Steven D. Schroeder Read More »
“He wanted to get out of his head,” she said,
“so I told him to write about his mother’s nipples.”
“My Mother’s Nipples,” by Robert Hass Read More »
History is now. And then now. It’s still happening now. And it appears it’s all about me.
Do you hear the engines beneath the model of the city giving out?
“The History I’m Living In Right Now!” by Kent Shaw Read More »
From the ceilings of our tiny tunneled chambers, we hang.
Workers bring their parcels—drops of toothsome honeydew
fallen from foreign floral nectaries.
“from MYRMECOLOGY,” by Rachel Harkai Read More »
In this dark moment, the largeness
of which I’d like to deny, we settle
arguments with silence, we divide the terra-cotta
soldiers one eyeball at a time.
“Ultima Thule,” by Susan Rich Read More »
