I Could Be Charlemagne
I could be Charlemagne. If I examine the plat, Lines and measures survey So many feet from here to there, Staked with orange, florescent paint, My realm of house, yard, wood, This soil, the worms, wasps, rabbits, These wildflowers, my vassals, Courting deferentially each summer, These trees, all bow to me. Absurd! Actually, the wind Possess these boughs — the wind, Pillaging the scene of the Pacific, Conquering the Rockies and Sierras, Marching cyclones across Nebraska. During calm days of respite, The wind away invading Appalachia, I could be Charlemagne, My reverie of sovereignty...
Read MoreRiparian Life
The grass crackled and frozen looking like sand and salt in the Egyptian desert, the source of natron that preserved the eviscerated and brain-hollowed bodies of dead pharaohs, still draws down a gaggle of Canada geese who must remember the site and near river of life much shorter than the Nile but sustaining enough even in the tired and soiled days of February for those beaks that peck and webs that stride upon last year’s vegetation that will renew without a weighing of heart against feather by Anubis, the jackal-head, so the big birds don’t have to worry their mortal...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of April 1 (Relationships)
Relationships are among the most important experiences of life, and this week’s contributors look at a variety of kinds. “That Month My Mother Begged to Wait with Her in the Dark” by Lyn Lifshin reflects on a mother-daughter relationship and its changes. “Mama’s Boy” by Robert Pfeiffer shares a son’s perspective on his connection to his mother. “Lunch, 1968” by Stuart Michaelson looks at how friendship can be complicated by external forces, such as race and politics. “Chicken Noodle Soup Maiden” by Stuart Michaelson depicts a creative young boy’s...
Read MoreIf We Lived Together
If we lived together, you would nick your chin on a regular basis, confusing my razor with yours, because I am more enamored of smooth legs than I am of ineffectual, pink girly-girl razors. If we lived together, I would lie awake until you fell asleep, then slide quietly from under the covers to turn the thermostat up five degrees, because I grew up in an ungodly-cold house and I swore that someday, I would be toasty-warm and sleep in the nude. If we lived together, you would bribe me with a foot rub to stop my chatter so that you could listen to the nightly news. If we lived...
Read MoreChicken Noodle Soup Maiden
Nineteen fifty-nine was a year of great uncertainty. What about the Russians? Why so many TV Westerns? But in Stuart Nation, Philadelphia’s West Oak Lane neighborhood, I tripped over my own vexing questions like they were too-long shoelaces—all swirling around a girl in my fourth-grade class whose disinterest intoxicated me. I was a happily-chatty kid most of the time, except when I was around Carol, whose studied cool and blond, bowler-cut hair usually left me incapable of saying more than hello. To the actual Carol, that is; I shared some incredible phantom-afternoon interludes with...
Read MoreLunch, 1968
“This is important,” my buddy Walter bellowed one lunchtime across the chatter and clatter of Germantown High School’s vast cafeteria. “And I can only say it once.” The topic that day in 1965 was color—specifically, orange, the hue of a stack of cheese crackers piled high and majestic near the cash register. I’d questioned the wisdom of paying for food we each had access to at home, albeit connected to peanut butter in the form of Lantz snacks. Why buy them when we have them in our kitchens? “These crackers,” the tall, handsome 10th grader said in stentorian tones...
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