Summer 1988 Edition Selections
by Diane Williams
It was dark outside, a wicked dark, on an early January evening, about six o’clock—but there were just the two of us in my house at the time, which could have meant that it was peaceful in my kitchen with my mother.
by Debora Greger
In the deepest folds, conceived
stroke by stroke to clothe the Virgin,
blue pigment blushes, empurpled
by brushed advances on a body
that wavers like any other
under the dogmatic drapery . . .
by Lynda Hull
Across Majestic Boulevard, Steam Bath
neons the snow to blue, and on her table
a blue cup steams, a rime of stale cream
circling its rim. . . .
by Michael O’Rourke
I came home from the doctor the other day with the news that I have sixty-year-old guts. Since my actual age is thirty-seven this was not the best news I could have received, but is nothing much to worry about, my doctor
assured me, as long as I continue to get plenty of fiber in my diet, which as a vegetarian I can’t help but do.
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