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46 & Recalling Ainu ALAN BROUGHTON ALLAN BLOCK Beckoned in Dream Befriending the Weather birds blood blue bone breath BRUCE HOLSAPPLE burning butterflies Carnevale CARNEVALE'S WIFE clothes clouds cold colors Copyright Cows Come Home Croutons Back crying darkness David Kherdian deer DICK ALLEN drinking problem drummers eyes face Father fingers fire fireflies fish Fitz Hugh Lane Friend With Spinning Gettysburg Address girl Glue grass hair hand hanging January Thaw JOSEPH BRUCHAC Kato's Poem Lake Lecture on Pushkin legs light Little Louey lives look LYN LIFSHIN Mary MacLane MICHAEL McMAHON moon Mother mouth move never night Noah's Wake not-the-same pine pink Putting the Croutons rain Richard Speck road ROBERT SIEGEL SABINAS HIDALGO shadow shakes side skeleton skin sleep smell snake snow stars stone Thaw THINKING ABOUT CARNEVALE'S trees turn waiting walls watch WESLEY MCNAIR wind winter woman womb wood
Page 41 - MY MOTHER AND THE AMERICANS My mother, who sees life at that peculiarly oblique angle that is commonly referred to as artistic insight, is the visionary poet of the family, but fortunately, (for those disciples who hope to succeed her), she doesn't practice her arts outside the home and one day, looking out the window into memory and the future, she announced: "These Americans raise their children like chickens Any which way.
Page 24 - ... you used to care so why (I heard you still have that crooked mustache, dark ruby lies) won't you at least pretend to want to want me? My nipples are lonely, my beads drip your name and I shouldn't have told you to go. Come on back, the way your name leaks down my skin, well it's gonna drown me NAMES Lately I become whatever you call me, the way some Indians do.
Page 20 - LEAVING THEM, LETTING THE FARM SWALLOW drove away i know I'll never go back and wanted to write it down the webs old crosses, marys horses against the sun painted on enamel on the walls she said i don't see any hope for the world we just take in poison kneeling with 4 german shepherds at one door the daughter singing how sweet it is her white arms dissolving in the night grass THE...
Page 21 - NYMPHEAS the long curved room the walls starting to shimmer breathe a Chinese girl sitting on the stone bench next to me dazed smiling the lilies moving into both of us...
Page 45 - Well, there was once then my voice will fade as if I had forgotten. I won't tell him that saying loveme and love-me-not is just one way of pulling a daisy apart. Let him learn this from some woman who will want him to make confetti out of every field in sight. I'll just tell him that women are wiser than we are when it comes to the mystery of loving, but of daisies, their knowledge is slight.
Page 70 - ... her lover; men lean from open car windows; they watch the present go by their lives, other lives, and they think of swimming in April. Into the present comes a quietness. The stars begin to replenish; it is a summer evening on the planet Earth, fireflies jounce in the darkness, crickets, treefrogs. You never knew such contentment. Strolling, thoughts to yourself, you feel the present is a valley, a refuge, a compromise between past and future and toss a stone at the river, race your own wife...
Page 45 - DAYS LIKE THIS Days like this, I want to go out and take off my clothes and put on a cassock of dry leaves and carry a crotched stick and get down on my knees and give the last rites to all the wilted dahlias in kind Mrs. Higginson's back yard. Then I would take off the leaves and strut naked down Main and deliver the Gettysburg Address to all pigeons and squirrels in the park.
Page 57 - Mermaid Waist up, I know. The rest snakes away: scales, fins, side-slits. My thighs inhale the ocean my wrists and breasts sweat off. This tail fools the pure fish the sharks' sweet playmate. But the manta-ray the size of a big man's hand all palm, does his deep dance I join with only my eyes the tiniest fish hugging him like jewels. I'ma woman simply combing my hair.
Page 22 - WAITING, THE HALLWAYS UNDER HER SKIN THICK WITH DREAMCHILDREN Lace grows in her eyes like fat weddings, she is pretty, has been baking bisquits of linen to stuff into his mouth all her life, waiting for him. The hallways under her skin are thick with dreamchildren. Who he is hardly matters, her rooms stay for him, her body crying to be taken with rings and furniture, tight behind doors in a wave of green breath and wild rhythm, in...
Page 79 - We walk where the moon, our only heart, is steady in light, where nothing beats between the metatarsel and teeth. This is the loom for weaving cloth of wind. We cannot read the pattern of our shadows. We sit down on the spread wing of a pelvis. Dry lightning tangles once in the rootless tree. If only we could name each bone, each bone would join and all this valley flow with sinew. The sky shakes twice Our tongues lie down like slate.