Poetry & Fiction

Fiction

At the Gravesite

Had I become an academic only to disprove the myth that Jews are only interested in making money, or to confirm the stereotype that Jews are smart? Or did I honestly hope to influence the younger generation?
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Poetry

Furlough

“I love to see those tall, lean, muscular men/with their clean-shaven heads and digital” a poem by Barbara Goldberg
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Poetry

Winter Commute

Dear friend, asleep / upright in a seat / when I boarded the train / goat-stepping over / your legs outstretched / why didn’t I wake you / but instead watched / you sleep. A poem by Joshua Weiner.
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Poetry

Fall to Your Knees and Thank God for Your Eyesight

the repeated words / sometimes made me think twice before / whimpering about a bruise on my knee, / or foolishly I would say the line just when she did…
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Fiction

Misty

A teacher is not one person. A teacher is the many voices he speaks and the quicksilver changes among them: the things he says to administrators and the things he says to parents; the things he says to ninth graders and the very different things he says to juniors; the farce and praise and kowtowing and congratulation, all those necessary notes across the register of human speech. We are whatever we are saying.
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Poetry

Translation depends, not on what must be included, but on what must not be left out

You enter the country next door from under the stone / Church of the Redeemer / subway exit. No Pork Chinese Restaurant / and Mr. Chicken, flank the avenue / both strictly halal.
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Poetry

The Glittering World

“On a night with a new moon, owls/ called, back and forth, over the house.” A poem by Arthur Sze.
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Poetry

Black Coffee at Noon

“Black coffee at noon with fellow sufferers. / The bleak cups squeak in our hands. So do the chairs…” A poem by Kenneth Fields.
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Fiction

Convoy

It doesn’t matter if you’re a good soldier; we’ve seen enough burning, mangled truck frames to know that death is completely impersonal here, that these roadside bombs are nothing more than an ominous lottery.
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Poetry & Fiction

The Last Word

So she bites it, her hand, bites it because she’s read somewhere about the transporting power of pain.
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Poetry

Postmortem

Not counting what I can’t remember, / the closest I ever came to her was when I put my hand / inside the urn…
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Poetry & Fiction

The Natatorium

But in class all she could see was Jacob, his lithe movements, the panicky heat of his body when she swam beside him and let their legs kick against each other in an ecstasy of splash.
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Poetry

Blossom Road

I don’t know why I pulled over, idling, right before Christmas, two months of snow and salt plowed onto the shoulder, each squat rambler aglow, a life-size baby Jesus reborn in the DiPasquale’s front yard, why everything looked different, the …
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Poetry

Songs for the End of the World

On the other side of praise / it’s time to chop down the tall tree in the ear— / enough enough with the starlit promontories—/ a nervous condition traces itself/ in lightning in the clouds, / a little requiem rattles among Coke cans / and old vegetable tins
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Poetry

Hartford

City of gun shots, where Hartford Hospital on Jefferson Street employed my mother, a nurse, dressed in her white uniform with pearl buttons, and now employs me, forty five years later, a chaplain with a black shirt and a white clerical collar. Some nights when I sleep in the on-call room, I think I hear them page my mother’s elegant name, Loretta. “Trouble,” a nurse says, “Why is the city so troubled?”
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