by Tracy Daugherty
All winter she’d waited for Robert’s worries to break. In late January he’d brought his father home to Texas from the rent–controlled apartment in Manhattan. He’d arranged for round–the–clock care at the med center, and he’d temporarily suspended his own projects. His work wasn’t moving much anyway—one small showing in a local gallery where, predictably, he was promoted as the son of the famous Abstract Expressionist, Frederick Becker.
by Mark Drew
Pinioned and fluttering,
I breathe gasoline and antifreeze.
I leak blood. My teeth are lost
among the cubes of safety glass
spangling the dash. A crowd gathers.
Where are my assistants?
by Rebecca McClanahan
If time was not only eternal, but infinite and circular as well, then it was possible that I had always existed; that I would never die; that I might be older than my grandmother; and that my own father, who was flying a mission in Vietnam, had yet to be born.
by Paul Zimmer
Snow came as fleecy powdering
Then began to spit and multiply,
Driving down hard across our town
To mount deep, benumbing drifts
In the streets and over houses.
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