Winter 1989/90
Page 278 from Issue 77 Not knowing (not caring even) What I'd been hitting was, Or knowing if it were dead, Till looking down, beholding The sand shark at my feet. 278 Issue 77 page ...
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Winter 1989/90
Page 279 from Issue 77 Above the Irish Sea, 1971 Three hundred feet above the Irish Sea, The greenest hillside I had ever seen Swept down in an avalanche of wild flowers Of every hue burnished by blazing sunlight To the cliff's edge where mighty ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 284 from Issue 77 Two Doors Down On the front porch, returning late, her son Is calling up to her to let him in, And she refuses. So he curses her. Things usually get violent from here, But there's a pause, and when she tells Him he had bett ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 285 from Issue 77 Taking the Lambs to Market Maxine Kumin All due respect to the blood on his bandsaw, table, hands and smock, Amos is an artist. We bring him something living, breathed, furred and meet it next in a bloodless sagittal section. No mat ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 288 from Issue 77 anybody's father in a brown suit, tie he never loosened. How's it hanging? he'd ask us from the center of the chrome-lined golden nimbus we couldn't keep from touching, drawing our hands over the ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 289 from Issue 77 what pussy was, slit, gash, hole? What made hair grow on our palms? What did it mean to dip the wick? To bugger? Bang? Ball? And what seemed to please him most was how we giggled. Giggled because we knew the words were power without ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 290 from Issue 77 round the corner and imagine as they shot down avenue and boulevard how the speed would be its own green light through all the intricate traffic-guiding grammar of signs and signals, the two of them a bright blur past the marveling ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 292 from Issue 77 than I was feeling that I began to feel really afraid. Then he reached over, his hand batted my arm playfully, his fingers now a language in which the words make sense but not sentences, weirder for being almost understood. It&# ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 295 from Issue 77 Three Poems lmre Oravecz When Now and Then We Run Into Each Other, you always manage to refer to it in one way or another, to let me know that however mean I was to you toward the end, all the same 1 was the genuine article, compare ...
Winter 1989/90
Page 298 from Issue 77 The Dancer or the Dance Rebecca Seiferle The wild pigs in Nicaragua, I don't know if I will ever forget them or how outside the ballet hall, in front of the half-moons of the empty glasses and the just-opened bottles of win ...
