Page 250 from Issue 77 Somewhere you are writing or have written in a room you came to as I come to this room with honeyed corners, the interior sunless, the windows shut but clear so I can see the bay windbreak, the laburnum hang fire, feel the ache of t ...

Page 253 from Issue 77 In Exile The German girls who came to us that winter and the winter after and who helped my mother fuel the iron stove and arranged our clothes in wet thicknesses on the wooden rail after tea was over, spoke no English, understood n ...

Page 255 from Issue 77 he hears any of what's going on in the city- traffic, the neighbor's TV, music from an upstairs balcony, his wife lilting a child's tune—if he hears, doesn't give it away, this man who one day wok ...

Page 257 from Issue 77 Now your legs fold under, big slabs of water slide up the tub then down to clap your hips and belly. You sit atop your legs to wash your belly, loose, soft from lately birthing again, and streaked with running milk, that pale fluid, ...

Page 259 from Issue 77 he's delicate, narrow- waisted, his frame so slight a lover, some rough other, might break it down its smooth, oily length. In his light-handed calligraphy on receipts, and in his moodiness, he is a Southerner from a river ...