by Philip St. Clair
It’s almost as if they enjoy it, that word that hacks and hisses,
And they use it fearlessly as they wait for the inevitable knife,
The irradiated metal pellet. They are smug genealogists of doom,
Lifting shrouds, plotting out each tier of family history,
Scrying the future in the dials on perpetual calendars.
by Elton Glaser
Profile like the Barrymores
On a bad hair day; rebarbative sighs
From the borsalino and the opera cloak;
Duet of the dogteeth, pitched high against
The lovelorn seizure of his smile—
by Arvind Krishna Mehrotra
The brand-new cricket bat, with Len Hutton’s signature inscribed near the top of the blade, where it joins the handle, stood in a shallow pan half filled with linseed oil. The bat was supposed to soak up the oil through a tiny hole in the bottom, and I went and checked it from time to time. When at the end of three days I saw that nothing was happening, I took the bat out of the pan and vigorously rubbed the oil into it with a cotton rag.
by Rebecca McClanahan
Capped and goggled, I begin my crawl
with the other turtles at the shallow end.
Sometimes a winner crowns the waves,
like the muscled lifeguard who churns air to water,
water to air, in the perfect butterfly. . . .
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