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CONTENTS
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Catherine
Wing |
Paradise--Un |
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Kevin Prufer |
Gothic
Leaves The Pastor |
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Rosanna
Warren |
Runes Family: A Novel |
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Donald Platt |
Snapshot |
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Sarah Maclay |
The
White Bride Grille |
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Camille
Norton |
Index
of Prohibited Images Paradise |
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Eric Pankey |
Pastoral |
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Inge Pederson |
Weasel Open the Darkness The Move |
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John Gallaher |
Campfire
Girls at Sunrise Hill My Life in Alcohol |
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Eamon Grennan |
Roman
Sights |
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Pattiann
Rogers |
Recitals
and Rituals |
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Christopher
Janke |
Closer
Psalm Unwritten Psalm |
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Franz Wright |
A
Happy Thought Lines Written in the Dark Illegible Next Day For Donald Justice The Knowers |
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Sharon Kubasak |
Flyleaf |
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Mariana
Marin |
Dark
Ages Mess Kit |
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Sandra McPherson |
"Someone Talked" |
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Sarah Vap |
Christmas
Play Surly Piggies |
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Marianne
Boruch |
Think
of the Words Simple Machines |
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Gita Chattopadhyay |
Thirty-Five
Parganas |
Hillel
Schwartz |
Sursum
Corda "Falling Weather" |
Ann
Killough |
[gulag] |
Dennis
Schmitz |
Bait Little Poem The Eye Bush |
Jacquelyn
Pope |
On
the Wane Digging |
Judith
Skillman |
Heat
Lightning Field Thistle |
Ellen
Bass |
Last
Night |
Herman
de Coninck |
"The
way you came in and said hello..." "She was a crowd of suns..." The Rhinoceros May Evening, Gendray |
Nancy
White |
Summer The Water Said |
Michael
Chitwood |
Deer
Hunting in Rain Tires |
Dave
Lucas |
On
a Portrait by Lucien Freud |
Mary
Ann Samyn |
This
Is Not an Entrance |
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Poetry 2004: Three Review-Essays |
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David Young |
Translating
America (Donald Justice, Collected Poems) |
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Pamela Alexander |
In
the Voices of Angels (Sophie Cabot Black, The Descent; Mark Irwin,
Bright Hunger) |
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David Walker |
All
We Have of What Was True (Carl Phillips, The Rest of Love) |
A very serious undertaking, it is,
the way the interior unflattens
as we press our faces to the garlands
and veils, over these
better surfaces, better maps. So we
motored on down
for the evening.
The trees that were around us were
themselves
for a moment. Later, I'm silver
under the stars.
And so was everybody else.
We were no different.
Silver trees over silver girls
on these silver hills.
It was horrible. But that's just
words. I could just as easily
have said wonderful.
Please.
Don't remember me like this,
remember me some other way,
some way I never was.
--John Gallaher
lost to a short pencil, words like
milk,
eggs, celery, gone to the library, I
fed the cats all flying through it,
using it up. And that eraser coming down,
those second thoughts, that how-do-you-spell-that?,
those changes of heart--serious, be gone!--when
a line drawn through whatever word
would do. When a single shoe
appears in the street, think
of the scramble. Someone lifted, carried off,
someone running, someone that
distraught, that drunk or
indifferent, that something. (Who's right?
my brother asked my mother
before any overwrought TV.) No, erase.
Delete. If we revisit
the pencil, I'd write a few more words
to wear it down. I'm all worn out, I heard
again and again through my childhood. Three
generations after supper. Such mulling
for the night. Worn out? I thought
of a tire--you can't get a penny
in its tread--or pants out at the knee, shirts
thin at the elbow, never who
we really are--life that
seems unstoppable--never the small,
hard eraser at the end of it.
--Marianne Boruch