Poetry & Fiction

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

The Butcher

With a smooth blade, he slit the throats of steers, / drained the blood into a bucket, salted the meat / to make it fully kosher. A poem by Carol V. Davis.
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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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Morning Blessings

For Rabbi Burt Jacobson Blessed is the dog’s tongue Shamanic prayer flag Binder of vapor Harbinger of light’s arrival. Blessed is the brain stem That battled entropy All night on my behalf. Blessed are my nether, pleasure parts That double …
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Poetry

Above the Roofs of the Jewish Village

I and my imaginary lover hover above the roofs of the Jewish village. Above the courtyards, dairy barns, animal pens. Above the awnings of the chicken coops. Amid smells and clucking, cold air and wind muss her imaginary hair, soft, …
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Poetry

Wartime Train

Bone-men, smoke-souls, river-wraiths, / I am, I know, no light …
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Poetry

Bamian: A Photograph from Tricycle, 2000

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