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I remember their ugliness
Like girls in class
Who were kind to me
The tree held them
Out to us like beggars
Outside a church
Selling portraits of saints
Torn out of books
Smiling we shook
Our heads and went on past
Into the cool kitchen
To eat sweet store-bought apples
Granny Smiths and Honeycrisps
That had been picked green
And gassed red in the trucks
But some days we'd stop
And take a crabapple
Shaped like a cramp
In our hands
Wary of worms
We turned and turned them
Like Adam and Eve
Resisting temptation
Before taking the bite
That exiled us all
Sour and mealy
They dried out our mouths
So that we spat cotton
In a pantomime of autumn
We dropped them
Down through the bee-hum
Into the cidery mash
The lawnmower had made
The shape of our mouths
Browning in the grass
The color of regret
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The silver sticker on the lower-right pane
Of the north-facing window of my childhood bedroom
Was to let the firefighters know that
There was a child up there

It was also what made fire possible
Depicting as it did a firefighter
Carrying an unconscious boy
Who looked like me in his arms

Had it not been for that sticker
I would never have lain awake
Imagining the tongues of flames
Flickering through the jambs

Crawling on hands and knees
Under the firmament of smoke
The ladder leaned against the sill
The axe shattering the glass

And me being carried
Down to earth rung by rung
To be told the hard truth and then
Sent to live with an aunt and uncle

The sticker that may have saved me
Suggested tragedy which is why
Some nights unable to sleep
I picked at it with my nail

But it could be peeled off
As easily as the moon can be
Peeled off the surface of a pond
Which is to say not easily at all

There are no stickers on the windows
Of the room in which I sleep now
No one knows anyone is here
And no child sleeps in that room

That I slept in as a boy
Though the sticker insists
One still sweetly does
As it waits for the axe to shatter it
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The Village


The bell startles me awake, and immediately it strikes me that I was mistaken about something, the first of many things I will be mistaken about here. I thought I had left Time behind, in Paris. But Time is here, too. Perhaps he could have been kept away if it weren't for the church. Those who built it must have known they could get away with leaving this place timeless, letting the forest act like a great, somnolent clock, its many hands of leaves turning. Perhaps they considered living free of him. Perhaps they took a vote, closing their eyes, raising their hands. But, having never lived without him before, they lost the courage to try, and brusquely put the clock on the tower, like a priest who, rushed, hastily anoints the last revenant's forehead with ash. Time had come with them here like a disease communicated by travelers. And so, even in this remote village, Time sits in his citadel, an aloof emperor ruling over an unthankful and distracted populace. Indeed, even the bells I woke to this morning have rebelled against him. Oh they toll when he tells them to, but no one pays them any attention. Time lives besieged here, like a missionary who, amongst the beauty of the pagan rituals, their customs, dress, songs, is beginning to lose his enthusiasm for converting the natives. Indeed, he begins to wonder if he isn't being converted by them. Maybe one day Time will go insane here, his black hands writhing together at midnight like the hands of a distraught neighbor at the door. Or perhaps his hands will, irrespective of his will, begin rowing backwards through the dark hours. It will be a great erasure, like a refugee scuffing out the marks her boots have made in the snow. And this valley will finally be rid of Time, and the very stones will rejoice for being out of the shadow of his dictatorship.

I had thought I could hold it together, but then that night in Paris... I was told later that I had tried to jump into the Seine to save Paul Celan. Or to save the ghost of Paul Celan. I made a scene that was embarrassing for everyone. My friend was trying to explain to the gendarmes that I had only been joking. They wanted to bring me in. When they finally walked away down the Quai she asked me in her beautiful, broken English what was wrong with me. I couldn't tell her that it was that book that had overthrown my mind so that I could no longer distinguish between my thoughts and the narrator's. The book that I had gotten rid of, leaving it in one of the bookstalls along the Seine, but that continued to haunt me. The book and the drinking and the heat were what did it. Without one of the three, I would have been fine, I think. But the book and the drinking and the heat conspired together to drive me mad, and my friends must have recognized the gravity of the situation, because in the morning they surrounded my bed and presented me with a plane ticket and instructions for how to reach this village. How I actually got here is not important. That I am here, alone, in my friend's ancestral house, the friend who made the cops walk away, that is what matters.

I went to sleep early last night, like a child, in the room I was told to sleep in: the bedroom of my friend's deceased grandmother, a woman of whom I know nothing but what I can divine from the photograph of her that hangs on the wall, one of those old portraits that hover in the center of a fuzzy white space that seems a crude image of the afterlife. In her great deep bed I might have slept well had the window shutters not kept blowing open and shut with a startling clap. I found a long piece of lumber that seemed to be leaning there just for the purpose I put it to. Finally, I fell asleep, and dreamt I was in a bookstore, looking for a particular book of poems. Poetry was shelved upstairs, of course. I struggled to climb the steps, being quite drunk and the steps being steep. The man who owned the place stood at their feet, accusing me of dereliction. I turned and mumbled something about poetry. He followed me up, and I knew from the sound of his ascent that he was lame: the sole of one shoe was three times as thick as the sole of the other. When I got upstairs, there was just one little shelf of mystical poetry: Rumi, Rilke, Whitman. I asked him where the other poetry books were and he said, "What do you mean? It's all here," pointing to the little shelf. As if the house was frustrated that I had managed to brace the windows, I woke out of this dream to the sound of the door yawning open, and for the rest of the night, no matter how firmly I shut it, it kept opening in the same somnolent way. It reminded me of how a parent opens the bedroom door to check on a sick child. It opened inquisitively, as if the rest of the house was curious about who had come to sleep in it. Every time I shut the door it seemed to promise me that it wouldn't open again, only to wake me (though it made a sound as soft as the bell-shaped sweeping of a dress along the floor). Somehow in the dark I found Swann's Way and braced the door closed with Proust's childhood. Surely, I thought, that world with its weight of faces, churches, flowers, could hold a door. And it did.

The bell tower itself was built in 1819. Whoever carved that date, their hands were alive as the two birds on this stonewall. When I came around the corner of the church, touching the stones like a blind woman, the bells peeled, the pigeons burst forth from the tower, sprung from time's blue hand. Moments later, down the valley, the bells of the nunnery rang. The nuns, sweet and weary in their habits, looked down at the rosaries in their hands. They prayed for us, we lost ones living up the valley.

How beautiful is the breathing of stones! All night they inhale the cold like people drowning themselves, like Paul Celan inhaled the green water of the Seine. All day they inhale the heat until they become warm as fresh loaves of bread. If we could see them breathing we might have more regard for them. We might even take the time to build stonewalls again. But you must touch them with the back of your hand, like checking a child for fever, to know this thing they do.

The families of this village keep tombs. When you die, you are buried where you lived. Your grandchildren bring fresh flowers to your grave. It is one of their chores. I had thought at first that it would be lonely to be buried alone like that, in a plot, the path to which requires constant work to keep open. But they seem to keep it open somehow, as if to lose the path to the grave would be akin to losing the person who lies there. And then I began to see it as a sweet thing, being buried all alone like that, off by yourself. There is room here to die your own death. One isn't doomed to a room in the vast subterranean motel of the cemetery. In your death you are like one of those hermit haiku poets who only received a visit from a friend or a student every few years.

The sound of crockery at suppertime: I imagine the bowls are brown and white, of heavy clay that breaks easy. Passing under their window, I think of the care with which husband and wife pass the dishes back and forth, asking one another with their eyes who's outside.

Dents in the wall where the window handles have gently slammed for ages from the rushed harassments of the wind. Old floral-stamped bedspreads, humbly festooned chairs, rickety wardrobes in which are stacked thin folded linens. Paintings hung high on the walls, haphazard: Mediterranean scenes in blue and sere yellow, the painters unknown, their hands plumes of bone rayed open in graves. The cupboards full of old china, the baby teeth of the house. The stillness and patience of this little cup, waiting to be filled, to be needed, holding its concavity through the years like the spirit in hiding in the attic of the flesh. The old iron door-locks that close with a weighty click, like the click of a pistol hammer thumbed back nine steps into the duel. This house was young once, unsure of itself but proud amongst these old mountains, like a young woman in a strange city with a letter of introduction in her hand. For a time the stones that compose it gloated for having been raised into a house. They carried themselves like aristocrats whom business has brought into a rough quarter of the city. But over time they grew humble again, and the house as a whole acquired as if through osmosis some of the wisdom of this place. While the world was shivering through its memes, these stones stayed stacked one atop the other like the vertebrae of stargazers. The walls only let me sleep within them because they know I am weary, and was a child once. They will never quite accept me. It is a long apprenticeship. They are like men who come back from a war and cannot love their wives because of what their hands have done.

The rain crushed in ten minutes all the mint in this immense valley and now in the aftermath the scent rises like a swelling of cellos during a rehearsal that will neither be recorded nor remembered.

Memorials on either side of the church door for soldiers who died in the world wars. I think of the charred bodies being carried back here, along these winding roads. Of their fathers standing unhatted in doorways, of their mothers wringing dishrags so hard they groaned. And the spirit walking alongside the body, one hand on the coffin as if to steady it.

At night they light the church with floodlights set in the ground. As I go under green waves of sleep that break solemnly over me, she stands, roseate, blushing, like a young woman being courted, her name-book growing thick with the florid signatures of suitors.

Dogs of this village, lend me some of your patience. Please. You stare at me, dole-eyed and kind. You do not bark. I bow to you, beg your pardon for disturbing your silence. You were born in vague litters that scattered soon after. Your mothers are long dead and your fathers never were. It is as if these very mountains engendered you. Perhaps this is why you are so patient.

On the floor of the room in which I am sleeping there is a footprint singed into the boards next to the bed. I have no way of knowing how it got there, or how a foot got so hot it burned its impression that deep into wood. Whoever's burning foot made that mark, they must have been huge, gigantic. If their foot was burning, I assume their whole body was, too, which means that once upon a time there was a gigantic burning person in the room in which I sleep. Being next to the bed, and pointing towards the door, I can only conclude that this giant woke up in bed burning. The room is small, the bed short: I imagine the giant curled up to fit in it. One night he woke to find himself on fire and got out of bed and walked out of the room and down the stairs and out into the night, incandescent in the music box dark of the valley. Every night, getting in bed, I must step around this singed impression. I am learning to live with this, to accept that this is the way things are here. The burning giant jumped into the river and extinguished himself in a hiss heard clear down the valley, a great shushing of the childlike land. Now a blackened giant stumbles disoriented through these woods. He wants to go back to bed. He is tired and wants to curl up and sleep. His body will blacken the sheets but he won't care. He will sleep clear through the tolling of the bells. He is lost now, but he will find this house because he must. I pray that I will not be asleep when he returns. I leave Saturday: it is Wednesday now. I do not think he will return before then, but three nights are three nights: anything can happen in them, even the return of a blackened giant. He may be nearing even as I write this, but I am tired and a guest of this house and this is the place I was told I could sleep. Who am I to complain? I'm doing my best not to worry. Really I am trying my hardest to be brave.

I should mention also, before turning off the light, that in the corner of this room there is a staircase that leads nowhere. The stones where it ends are different from the stones that compose the rest of the ceiling. They look older. I should mention also that the stairs are inaccessible (not that one would need to access them: they lead nowhere) because each step is completely lined with pair after pair of old shoes.

What I had imagined was a nunnery down the valley is in fact another village. There is no young nun down there reading the Gospels in French, a woman whom the world tried to defile but who escaped and has found refuge here, where I too have found refuge. Our eyes will never meet as I pass under the window because there is no nun because there is no nunnery. There may be a window and a woman gazing out of it, she may even be reading the Gospels in French, but she will not be a nun and she will not be free of the world, even here, in this isolated valley on this isolated island. This is too difficult a truth for me to accept, so I've decided that there has been some mistake, that it is, in fact, a nunnery, a nunnery that has disguised itself as a village so as not to be destroyed.

I can hear the goats down in the valley. The bells they wear gossip about them. They call out,
"Here they are! Here they are!" I wonder if the goats get annoyed, if they want, for once, to go in secret, like pilgrims, but are always betrayed by their bells, those albatrosses hanging from their necks, those beautiful necks that will be cut because the farmer who will raise the ax has never not known where his goats are.

After going into this little chapel, dimly lit with candles at dusk, I can never again endure the grandiosity of Notre-Dame. God doesn't pay any attention to big cathedrals because they are too full of people with cameras, brochures, neck aches, Rick Steeves books, prayer intentions, check lists. God loves better this little chapel dedicated to St. Anthony, and loves the woman who limps up here every morning and evening and lights three candles: one for her dead husband, one for her dead son, and one for you. I don't know that I can go back into Notre-Dame after seeing those three candles burning and thinking of how they will go out one by one while I sleep, the church darkening in stages until the only light is the lambent light the white statues cast like shadows.

The neighbor lady is calling for an animal. There is a black cat cowering guiltily behind this wall. I don't want to embarrass myself trying to ask her if she is looking for this cat, nor do I want to betray this cat in hiding. She is still calling. The cat just yawned.

Just back from a walk, on which I watched two dung beetles rolling a ball of manure across the road. One pushed and the other pulled. It wasn't graceful. They fell and tipped over but tirelessly they went on, like any two workers anywhere on earth. When they came to a crack in the asphalt, the ball of dung rolled down the fissure against their will. Summoning what must have been their last reserves of energy, they succeeded in crossing the divide and continued across the road, fully convinced of the importance of their task, knowing only their world, the exhaustion on one another's faces, the globe of dung between them. We too believe in our lives this way. We are essentially no different from dung beetles. But how easily I could have crushed them.

The white butterfly that rises up off the stonewall because I peered too close and disturbed it with my breathing lightens the stonewall: the stonewall, so heavy, so set in its purpose, goes floating through the air vicariously through the butterfly. In this way it is like an old man watching children catching fireflies and feels again what it feels like to be a child.

This mountain is too big to go online. It won't fit. People have tried to get it online, people in Palo Alto, who've managed to get most everything on there, but this mountain is too big. It's bigger even than Everest, than Denali, because those two mountains fit snugly side by side in my mind, while this mountain looms before me, massive and nameless, and it's going to stay right here, though they've tried to drag it online with chains, come-alongs, barges, trains, you name it. It won't budge. It's a really fucking big mountain.

On a stone at the corner of the bell tower someone has etched a cross, thin as the t's in this sentence, the horizontal line crossing the vertical line about a third of the way down... How clumsy is this description of such a simple and beautiful thing! I've ruined it. I may as well have taken a penknife and scribbled over this fine-lined, vivid cross someone carved into the stone, as if the church had somehow gotten it all wrong and they wished to start Christianity over again.

The water here tastes old. No one would say it's great water. It's not very cold. It has a murky quality to it, like someone trying to decide whether to lie down and read in midday. It doesn't seem quite content to be in my glass, in my water bottle, in my mouth. I think it misses the secret aquifers from which it was drawn. There it knew itself, down amongst the stones, barely remembering when it had fallen as rain, like an old man who has forgotten the ardent kisses of his youth. I beckon it come to me through the broke-necked faucets and it comes but reluctantly, and it fills me with shame to piss it out.

These stones will never be turned into bread. They could be, every stone can be if touched by the right hands, but no one who can accomplish this miracle will come up here and touch them. Well, I shouldn't be so certain. Maybe there is a child in this very village who is beginning to go off alone, after chores, who goes away for hours but always returns when he should, like all saints. I hope there is such a child in this village. Otherwise these stones will never be turned into bread.

Yesterday I was sitting outside and a man and a boy appeared, pushing an old man in a wheelchair with difficulty over the cobblestones. They reached the flight of stone stairs that wends its way up to the higher tiers of the village and the boy beckoned me over to help carry him. It reminded me of carrying my grandfather's coffin: it had been so light I felt he was floating through the air and we grandsons chosen to be pallbearers were merely accompanying him. The wheelchair was similarly light. I merely held the handle. Neither of us seemed to be exerting ourselves, as if the old man had lightened himself for us out of kindness. When we reached the house there was a flurry of hands, and I returned to my book on the sunlit patio. The old man never said a word and I never saw his face. Then I remembered that my friend had mentioned that her elderly uncle was going to return to the village to die, and so I assume that this is the man I helped carry. Her uncle had a twin brother, and the two of them were once amongst the most famous singers in France. They sang all night in the cafes of Paris to the artists and painters Hemingway described, who had worked all day in solitude and gathered at night to forget about it all and listen to these twin brothers sing. I think of the two of them, almost identical in appearance, the source of arguments and bets: which brother was which? They're voices too must have blended into one. Girls must have lain in bed with their hands over their hearts, suffering in indecision about which twin they loved more. Now, this crippled singer I helped carry has lost his brother and suffered a stroke. He can't speak anymore, much less sing, and he is still above the earth while his brother is below it. His gestures and mannerisms, paralleled by his brother all his life, are his alone now. I wonder what he does in that dark house we carried him up to. I wonder if he listens to his own voice on scratchy records that spin with all the somnolence of the earth itself. I believe he sits there in silence singing, full-throated and strong, and that no one can hear him but his brother, the one he sings for, smiling on his back in the earth.

Last evening the neighboring family returned. Three daughters, a bright-eyed baby, mom and dad, uncle, grandpa and grandma. They're goat farmers down in the valley, their lives entranced by milk. The old man has a face weathered by laughter. He comes up the steps, spritely at 83. He berates the baby for being a baby. He berates the dog for being a dog. He points at me and seems to say, "You are you and there's nothing can be done for that." He talks all night in a continuous stream, pausing from time to time to talk to me in broken English. I've only understood a handful of things he's said. He said Americans drink whiskey like tea and then they put on their little hats. While looking through his binoculars at his sheep high up on the mountain, he pointed and said, "Hunting season." He asked me if I'm a cowboy and when I said "Sure" he asked how I stay on a horse. I gripped invisible reins in the air. He shook his head no and slapped the insides of his bare thighs. He asked me how long pigs are pregnant for. I guessed five months. He said I was dead wrong, they're pregnant for three moons. He has beautiful eyes and the expressions of a Shakespearean actor, equally capable of tragedy and comedy at any moment. Out of the blue he told me he'd like to burn his own house down before he dies. He explained very seriously that all five of his sons built their houses without having their heads lopped off. While smoking a cigarette he told me I shouldn't smoke cigarettes, pointing to each lung deliberately, as if making the sign of the cross. He said rich Americans come to his country and throw their money down on the ground and stomp on it. When I asked him would he like some chocolate he said, "No, but I won't refuse."

It's time to leave. I doubt I will be remembered. I doubt that anything I have said or done will remain here. All vestiges of my presence will be swept away. The house will recover its composure, the bed will smooth itself, my fingerprints and footsteps will fade. My time here has been a life within my life, like the endosperm in the seed. And my leaving is dying. I am practiced now in death, and I have the village to thank.
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The Cellar


I open the cellar doors slowly
First one then the other
Laying them by the way
The pastor's hungover son
Asked to read the epistle Sunday
Morning opens the heavy book
And begins to read the letter Paul
Wrote to the Corinthians
Feeling the eyes of the girl
Who finally refused him
In the bed of his pickup last night
Burning through him
Where she sits in the pew
Remembering the sweet way
She said she was sorry
As she buttoned her blouse
A blue bag of white salt
Over my shoulder
Tear it open with my teeth
Soften the water
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Space Between Lightning and Thunder: Childhood, Illinois

Between the lighting and the thunder was space
Enough for the land to lie long as a man
Laughing while being measured
For his coffin
Straining so as to be sure not to suffer
A crick in his neck for eternity
Space for the geraniums their petals
Like tissues used to staunch stab wounds
Space for the porch swing that slipped
One of its eye-hooks
Like a man who claimed to have given up
Space for the screens curling at the corners
Like wallpaper hung when it's too humid
Space for the boy with the book in his hands
Space for the book in his hands
The span of the war
Manassas to Appomattox
Half a million dead
They all fit
In the space between when
The sapling of light that won't take disappears
And the thunder reaches him
Like the poem he'll write
Decades from then
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He was feeding calves when his cousin called out to him from where he was filling up his truck. “How about I take you fishing tonight?” The boy nodded, but, figuring his cousin would forget like he always had, put it out of his mind so as not to be disappointed. But that afternoon, feeding calves again, his cousin came walking up from the milk house with a Folger’s can and told him to gather up some worms. He’d be over in an hour to pick him up. Shy, the boy peered in at the eyebrow of grounds at the bottom. When his cousin was gone, he licked his finger and tasted it, an earthy, slightly-bitter flavor that he carried back over to the other house along with the can itself, slung over one handlebar.

His mother was on the porch, talking on the cordless. When she saw him walking up with the can, she pinned the phone between her ear and her shoulder and made a reeling motion. Unbeknownst to him, it was she who’d called his cousin the day before to ask if he’d take the boy fishing before school started. He’d never been fishing before. His father had promised to take him but something always came up: the cows got out, or there was fieldwork to finish, or he was simply too tired to teach his son something he barely knew how to do himself. For as long as the boy could remember the poles had leaned together in one corner of the machine shed, rigged up with rusted tackle, pale lead weights pinched along the length of the line. Small as they were, there was a violence about the hooks. They had known the innards of innumerable worms and the soft mouths of fish that were tossed back thrashing to grow old and bitter in the waters of the Pecatonica. One day back in June, when he hardly knew what to do with the new wealth of hours, the boy had taken one of the poles, more out of a longing to touch what his cousin had touched than out of any interest in fishing, and gone down to the pond below the house where his cousin lived with his parents and his five mysterious sisters and tried fishing with a bare hook. And that was when his cousin had come out onto the porch and made the promise that he was finally keeping that evening: to take him fishing on the Pecatonica, where the big fish were.

He walked around the house and down to the kitchen garden. It was August and the beds had been left to go wild. He stepped in and knelt amongst the herbs. Their scent was heady and somewhat sickening. He picked some parsley and chewed it as if it were an antidote. He liked the way the leaves tickled the roof of his mouth. The soil was soft, brightened in places with vermiculite from the potted starts he’d helped his mother put in in the spring. It took some digging before he found the first one, but after that, as if some permission had been granted, they were everywhere. He pulled them, writhing and attenuated, out of the dark secret soil and lay them gently, one upon the other, in the can, dimming the quicksilver tin so that it ceased blinding him when he glanced in. Every now and then he tossed a handful of dirt in, in a trusting, measured way, the way he’d seen his mother toss salt into soup. He stopped when the can was full. The dog came up from under the porch to greet him, sniffed at the can and, at a loss as to how to participate, somnolently licked its side.

It was still possible his cousin wouldn’t show. Sitting on the porch step between the flaming geraniums, he began to wish he wouldn’t. But then the truck appeared on the brow of the hill and came bucking down the field path, the dust trailing in a long plume that would take all evening to settle. Long before he braked abruptly before the lilacs, the boy recognized the song he was blaring: “Free Falling,” the hit of the moment. His cousin came walking up to the porch, carrying both poles in one hand, a dirty tackle box in the other. The lines were rigged up with bright new tackle. His mother brought out an obligatory pitcher of lemonade and invited his cousin to sit in one of the chairs angled matrimonially towards one another. The boy stayed on the steps. A worm had pierced the surface of the soil, its featureless head wagging back and forth in a pitiable, searching way, begging pardon. So as not to have to watch the worm he watched his cousin. The boy was fascinated by everything he did, the way he sat there so casually, one hand dangling between his thighs, the other holding the glass of piss-colored lemonade, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. He had watched him on Friday nights, juking would-be tacklers, had heard his name boomed from the loudspeaker, allowing himself to feel pride in being related to him, and now he was sitting there, on their porch, making his mother laugh. She covered her mouth because she was embarrassed of her teeth. Years of drinking the iron-rich well water had stained them, while his cousin's teeth were perfectly white, like chiclets set in his gums.

The light changed. Soon his father’s truck would appear on the hill. Just when he started wondering if they’d ever go, his cousin stood up. In the truck his cousin pulled a can of Old Milwaukee out of a blue and white cooler set on the bench seat between them. Bucking down the washed-out lane, the boy squeezed the can of worms between his boots to keep it from tipping over. His cousin handed him the beer to try. It tasted like how the granary smelled. They took the hill so fast he felt his stomach go hollow and blew past the bridge. Only upon losing momentum did his cousin turn around and drive back. From the power line hung lengths of fishing line complicated with tackle, evidence of the errant casts of other summers.

While gazing down together at the water purling against the pilings, his cousin unzipped his fly and drew out his thing. It lolled hugely out of his jeans, the stream of urine falling in a golden mist that didn’t alter the mud-brown surface of the water. Catching the boy staring, his cousin turned towards him, rocking a little, making it sway. The boy felt something similar to what he’d felt coming down the hill, only in a different part of himself. Putting it away, his cousin knelt down and plunged his hand into the can. Bringing the hook close to the boy’s face, he deftly pierced its body, and the worm doubled back upon itself, a pink ganglion of pain. His cousin nodded. The boy drew another worm out of the dirt and clumsily crucified it. His cousin grinned.
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Townes Van Zandt - Only Him or Me"

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Nick Drake - "Place to Be"

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Dickinson's Fascicles

There has been so much written about Dickinson that I hesitate to add anything to the chorus. But considering the title of Susan Howe's study, MY EMILY DICKINSON, I suppose everyone is entitled to their own Emily. My Emily Dickinson was a terrifying poet who wrote one of the scariest, most insidious, most violent poems ever written, which I'll discuss below. She is other things to me, as well, but when I teach her to my students I begin with this poem, just to counteract all that they might assume about her.

One thing I find to be consistently frustrating is how she is often characterized as the polar opposite of Whitman. It seems too convenient, to me. Yes, while Whitman was at the bedsides of wounded soldiers, Dickinson was in her room in Amherst, sewing her poems into fascicles (scholars believe that the fascicles were put together from about 1858 to about 1864). Whitman famously reviewed his own book (he would have been wonderful on Twitter), while Dickinson was "reclusive," spoke to visitors through the door, wore white, etc. We forget that she drowned kittens, broke plates, refused to go to church with her family.

The movie, A QUIET PASSION, is a terrible film because it reinforces all of our presumptions about her. To watch the movie is similar to watching a bad movie about a novel you love (ANNA KARENINA with Kiara Knightly would be a good example): you have to work, as if trudging through drifts, to get the novel arranged in your head the way it was before you entered the theater. I've had to do a bit of work to get Dickinson arranged in my head since suffering through A QUIET PASSION. It would be the worst movie about a poet I've ever seen (and I've seen pretty much all of them) if REACHING FOR THE MOON, about Elizabeth Bishop (allegedly about her) wasn't worse.

But back to Dickinson. As soon as the title A QUIET PASSION flashed on the screen the movie lost me. Of course, I knew it was called that when I bought my ticket, but something about seeing it up there struck home, and I knew we were in for it. Props to Cynthia Nixon for a valiant performance, but one has the sense that everyone else on the set is bored to tears. In this film Dickinson comes across as the difficult and rebellious daughter, who triumphed over her own limitations and was beloved in spite of herself. "Oh Emily, you're so DIFFICULT! But we love you all the same." Whoever the Dickinson of A QUIET PASSION is, she isn't the poet who wrote the poem I'm going to share below. Not sure why Richard Brody of the The New Yorker called the movie "a drop-dead masterwork." I simply wanted to drop dead, along with the half dozen or so octogenarians I saw the film with at 2:30 in the afternoon in Berkeley, two of whom had the wisdom to leave early.

Contrast this failure of a film with BRIGHT STAR, Jane Campion's movie about John Keats, which I think gets something of Keats's life, the sadness of it, the intricacies of his friendship with Brown and his relationship with Fanny Brawne: one gets the sense that Campion loved Keats, and decided to make a movie about him, whereas one gets the sense that Terrance Davies wanted to make a film, and stumbled upon Dickinson as a worthy subject. Indeed, he says in an interview that he started reading Dickinson about fifteen years ago. Would it be unfair of me to demand that a director have read a poet for at least three decades before they decide to convey their life on screen? Probably. But I demand it anyway.

What does all this have to do with self-publication and fruition? I would argue that our notions about Dickinson's reclusiveness, accurate as they might be, end of getting yoked to her working methods, so that we see her in her room, sewing her fascicles, as if this was something she was forced to do by circumstance, rather than a courageous artistic decision. To jump ahead to my meditation on the work and career of the famously irascible poet Bill Knott, it has been said of him that he was "forced" to self-publish when no one would publish his work. There may be some truth in that, but it strikes me as being just as likely that something about the directness of the blog, the fact that its content was in Knott's hands and not in any others', created the perfect environment for his creative work to flourish.

In reading about Dickinson's fascicles, almost no one discusses WHY she made them. Those that do take up this question seem to suggest that she made them because these years were such a prolific period in her poetic career. Indeed, her most prolific. From "Emily Dickinson's Life" by Paul Crumbley: "Much critical attention has been devoted to the years of Dickinson's greatest poetic production, when her output is estimated to have accelerated from 52 poems in 1858 to 366 poems in 1862, and then declined to 53 poems in 1864. What provoked such a sudden and rich abundance of creativity? And why did Dickinson take the time to carefully gather fair copies of 1,147 poems and bind 833 of them in the individual packets known as the fascicles?" To me, the answer to this question very well may be in the fascicles themselves. In other words, why assume that, because she was writing so many poems, she felt compelled to gather them together in these sheafs? What if the idea of the fascicle, of bringing her work to that kind of personal fruition, encouraged her to write more than she otherwise would have?

There are plenty of holes in my argument, of course, the biggest of which might be the following: if fascicle-making was such a fruitful process for her, then why did she stop making them? I don't know how to answer that, except to suggest that maybe the fascicles served some psychic purpose in those years that they ceased to serve around the end of the Civil War.

But all that aside, what I find so moving about the fascicles is the fact that they were, for her, a way to gather her poetic production, in the same way that a farmer makes hay and puts it up in the barn. Dorothy Hauf Oberhaus describes the process on the Modern American Poetry site: "Although the poems of Emily Dickinson remained virtually unpublished during her lifetime, she did engage in a private kind of self-publication from about 1858 to 1864. During those years, she made copies of more than eight hundred of her poems, gathered them into forty groups, and bound each of these gatherings together with string to form booklets. While she sometimes sent a friend a copy of one of the poems from the booklets, there is no evidence that she showed them in their bound form to anyone." There was a pleasure, I'm sure, in reaching the end of a fascicle, in threading the needle with string, in piercing the paper, in tying the knot, in setting the fascicle with the others in the drawer, perhaps taking the old ones out from time to time and reading them as if they weren't hers, but another's.

This is the key, I think: the experience of publication is the experience of otherness: what one has created stands apart from oneself, and for the first time can be regarded and appreciated. Whatever the poem can give back to its creator, it can only give back then, across that distance that has yawned between them. And my point here is that, if we can create this dynamic between us and our work ourselves, then why do we waste so much time and energy and money trying to get someone else to do it for us?

~ ~ ~

Now some might ask if I consider the Instagram poets like Rupi Kaur to be doing something similar when it comes to self-publication. I would say no. Regardless of the quality of the work, which I don't feel like wasting time discussing, there is the expectation of the work being read, and not only being read, but being liked, and forwarded, and tweeted, etc. The desire is the same, to cut out the unnecessary step of having the work vetted by an editor, but the intention is completely different. I doubt if Dickinson were alive today she would be posting her poems on Instagram. I'm not saying this to be funny or ironic. I'm simply wondering, considering the technology of publishing today, and the fact that there are other avenues available to poets for getting their work into the world, how she would behave. I assume she would do something similar to what Bill Knott did: she might place her poems in some corner of the internet, where they stood a chance of being found, as she must have known her poems stood a chance of being found in her desk. To me, what Rupi Kaur and the other Instagram poets are doing has more to do with marketing than with publication. If it had everything to do with publication, they wouldn't be signed by major presses, who, correctly guessing what sort of readership these poets will garner based on their followers and their poems' likes, can't even be said to "take a chance on the work." The chance has already been taken by the poet, and the poet has the metrics to prove that the chance paid off. Ironic, yes, that the publishing world is now limping behind its writers, trying to catch up to them, to harness the work they posted "for free" and make a profit from it, for themselves and for the poet. But it is too outward, public and self-concerned a practice to count as "fruition."

Again, the quality of the work is besides the point. People love to criticize MILK AND HONEY, but there is worse poetry published every year, poetry so bad no one can even admit that they don't like it. Just an anecdote on this: I was once at a reading for a very well-known, hip press. It was one of those off-site readings at AWP, in a gallery with a scuffed floor and exposed pipes in some major American city. A number of well-known poets who were published by this particular press were reading. My friends and I were in the back, drinking, misbehaving. Why? Because we were jealous, perhaps, of the attention these poets were being paid. But then I looked closer: I noticed that people were only pretending to pay attention. I decided to conduct a kind of poll: I asked a woman standing next to me, in a whisper, whether she liked the poems she was hearing. She looked at me in surprise, then glanced around, then looked at me again and shook her head. I asked half a dozen people. No one liked what they were hearing. They seemed relieved to have been given the opportunity to admit it.

~ ~ ~

Back to Dickinson. Here is the cruelest poem ever written:

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms-
It had the Tassels on-

I thought how yellow it would look-
When Richard went to mill-
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how Red - Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between-
And the Carts went stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in-

I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates-
To make an even Sum-

And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The altitude of me-

But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year-
Themself, should come to me -


When I teach it to my students, it always goes over their heads at first. It went over mine for years before it sank in what the speaker of the poem is saying. Not Dickinson. Dickinson was a living poet when she wrote it. The speaker of the poem is dead. Not necessarily Dickinson, not necessarily a woman, even, but a person who has died before her father has. The tone of the poem suggests that the speaker is not a child, but is somewhat childish, and so I've always imagined the speaker of the poem to have died somewhere between the ages of 18 and 24. They died a year before the poem ensues. Exactly a year: "'Twas just this time, last year, I died." Indeed, the one-year anniversary of this speaker's death seems to be the catalyst of the poem, the reason the dead speaker begins speaking. To us. Why us? Because we're the only ones who can hear them. The speaker cannot visit their family, only us.

But I never begin this way when I teach the poem to my students. Instead, I ask them what's so weird about this poem? They blink and look at me blankly for a moment and invariably some kid wearing gray sweats raises his hand and says, "They're dead."

"Isn't that marvelous?" I say, "that you can write from the perspective of the dead?" I assume they've never considered it before. They've never considered writing from the perspective of a living person who is not themselves, much less a dead person who is not themselves. This poem proves to me that Dickinson's imagination was extraordinary, that she had the same vision that Keats has when he writes "This living hand - I hold it out to you..." the same vision that the short story writer Breece D'J Pancake had when, at the end of "Trilobites," the narrator feels his fear move away from him in waves for a million years. It's an intelligence that goes so far beyond publication, Submittable, AWP, MFA programs, all the perhaps necessary but no less pointless garbage of being a successful literary citizen, that it makes me laugh out loud out of sheer relief.

But what is it that makes this poem so cruel? Let's look at it more carefully. The first thing to notice is how brilliantly organized it is. The poem has a structure, based on the months of the year, based, more specifically, on the rituals of agriculture and of the holidays, all that gives human life its meaning.

Stanzas 1 & 2: The speaker claims that it was "just" (a word we might read as meaning "precisely") last year that they died, but they only know what time of year that was because they know they heard the corn rustle as they were carried, in the coffin, past the farms. At this point, I like to quiz my students about the stages in the maturation of corn. They usually guess every month from April to July until someone ventures August. The speaker died in August. I love the cartoonishness of the image: the corn had the tassles on, like women in church hats. There's a jollity to the image, as if the dead didn't quite believe they were going where they were going. It's only when the speaker thinks, naturally, of the next stage in the corn's maturation, the putting on of ears ripe with yellow kernels, the September work of taking it to the mill, that the speaker realizes their predicament. Now they're really scared. They want out, but like someone who's about to be buried alive but who cannot move or speak, something is preventing them from letting it be known that they don't want to be under the earth, where things are changeless, but above it. It is the thought of the future without them being there to see it that makes the speaker panic. The rest of the poem will proceed from this moment of fear.

Stanza 3: An interesting effect of this poem is that, recalling this day a year prior, when the speaker died, the speaker is both telling us what they envision is going to happen, while also implying that, from the perspective of the speaker on this one-year anniversary of their death, these things have already happened. And so, when the speaker says that they thought of the apples ripening and falling to the ground, and the pumpkins being taken in (both October images: so you can see how we've proceeded from August to September to October in the first three stanzas), we know that these things have happened, and that, in the same way that the speaker can only imagine them happening in the future, they can only imagine them having happened in the past. This poem is the perfect dramatization of how life continues without us. Nothing will change because the speaker is dead: Richard, the proverbial farmer, will still bring the corn to the mill; the apples will ripen and fall to the ground, wedged between straw stubble; the carts will go slavishly stooping round the fields to take the pumpkins in, as is their fate. I love that word "stooping": it conjures the weight they must bear, as when we stoop under a burden, and also a kind of stubborn somnolence. Another season has come to pass. Corn, apples, pumpkins have all reached the end of their maturation. For them there is no death, only fulfillment: the corn is milled, the apples pressed to cider, the pumpkins taken in to be carved into jack-o-lanterns and made into pies. The speaker alone longs to reverse time.

Stanza 4: This stanza, clearly a November stanza, what with Thanksgiving, is somewhat difficult to parse, but I've always read it as being the moment in the poem when the speaker, still in the coffin a year prior, still unsettled by the fact that something is holding their will and they cannot get out, turns away from the natural processes of the land and towards the domestic world where, like a ghost hovering outside the window, they observe preparations for the Thanksgiving meal. They wonder who misses them least. Not most, but least. It doesn't matter if four of them are still wearing black, drowning in the depths of mourning. Though these four might vie for the prize of missing the dead daughter or son most, the speaker is more curious about which of her family members misses them least. They fix upon their father as perhaps the most likely culprit. After all, he has a household to manage. Students have interpreted the beautiful but complicated imagery of this stanza in many ways, but the way I read it is that the speaker considers the table, how, in the speaker's absence, there is an awkwardness there, a place-setting to conspicuously removed. And so the father invites a friend, perhaps a widower, or a bachelor who might marry one of his eligible daughters. An even sum: tidy up that side where the speaker was sitting last Thanksgiving so as not to drag everyone down.

Stanza 5: I love this stanza, which brings us to December, the way that the speaker envisions Christmas as a gleeful brightness that their absence might blur, the way their absence from the Thanksgiving table might ruin the meal. This is Dickinson at her most cutting regarding traditional notions of where the dead go when they die. I read this stanza as sarcastic. The speaker wonders if her family will be saddened when, looking for their stocking hanging over the fireplace, they instead look up to Heaven, imagining their dead brother or sister somewhere above them, their stocking still on their foot, too high for any Santa Claus to reach them. But of course the speaker is not in Heaven. They're in the coffin, which is in the cemetery. The idea that they are at some unreachable altitude might well blur the Christmas glee, but it's implied that it also protects the family, allows them to consider their dead child and sibling as being safe in Heaven.

Stanza 6: Then, as my dear friend, the brilliant teacher and poet and critic Michael Theune would say, "The turn!" All this thinking was making the dead feel too fucking sad at that time last year, when they were being led away from the world towards the family vault. More literally, the line says: "This sort of thinking grieved me..." Having imagined the family moving on, having Thanksgiving dinner, celebrating Christmas, the speaker thinks, "Why should I bum myself out?" It's as if they've taken a lesson from their imagining of their family's resilience in the face of their death. They decide to cheer up, to think the other way: in other words, instead of thinking back on their life, to look forward to their family members' deaths. Now we have the echo of that phrase: "just this time" - just this time, some perfect year, they will come to the speaker. It may not be quite fair to say that the speaker longs for their family members to die: nothing in the poem suggests that the speaker wants them to die SOON. But the fact is, it cheers them up to think that they're only going to be alone there for some earthly period of time. The poem perfectly dramatizes the inevitability of death, through a dead speaker, while also accusing the living of complicity with death for merely surviving.

My whole point being that I don't see how a poet who has the genius to dramatize something so difficult to conceive of that she had to write from the perspective of the dead to even approach it, could have given a shit about whether The Atlantic Monthly published it or not. This is perhaps why, in her correspondence with Higginson (who acts as a kind of Watson to her Holmes), she dances circles around him, not just because she was wittier and more brilliant, but because he is operating in the confines of a world that she has taken leave of imaginatively so often that its strictures and rules have ceased to matter to her. As Coleridge wrote in a notebook: "No one can leap over their own shadow - poets leap over death."
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"The Auction of the Mind"

I've been thinking the past few days about publication, how it is at once a necessary stage of the creative process, and a potentially ruinous one. I've been thinking in particular about self-publication (the kind of self-publication I am doing here in putting poems and stories up on "Gleanings"), and about these three poets and their relationship to what Dickinson called "the auction of the mind": Dickinson (of course), Frank Stanford and Bill Knott.

I would like to think upon how these poets overthrew traditional ideas of who can judge a work worthy of being put into the world. But first I wish to distinguish between publication in the more traditional sense (the acceptance of a poem by a journal, or of a book of poems by a press; the printing of this poem amidst other poems, or of this collection amidst other collections) and what I will call fruition (for the sake of simplicity, I will be talking here about poems, but could just as well be talking about stories or songs or even novels). The difference between publication and fruition is this: with publication, the poem or the book of poems has been vetted by persons who, having not written the poetry themselves, are deemed solely capable of determining whether the poetry belongs in the world or not. In this way, the publisher possesses great power over the creator: the publisher is in a position of judgment. The language of publication is, inherently, the language of judgment and of power: submission, acceptance, rejection.

One submits a poem or a book of poems to an editor.

A poem or a book of poems is either accepted or rejected.

Either way, the value of the work is determined by one who, no matter how much they might appreciate or loathe the work, is inherently disconnected from its creation. Most creators just accept that this is the way of things: they admit that, being subjective judges of their own work, they ought to submit it to someone who has no particular feeling towards it, who can judge it on its own merits, objectively (though we know this is a sham) and let them do with the poem or the book of poems what they will. Poets accept this. They assume that they have no ability to bring their work into the world without first passing through this process, as if fire-walking. Over the glowering bed of coals, published poets beckon the unpublished poet towards them. They've made it across, their feet only slightly singed.

But what happens when a poet, because of personality (Dickinson), or rejection (Stanford), or some combination of both (Knott) decide to put their poems into the world themselves, without any intermediary? Self-publication is oftentimes derided as some last-ditch, self-centered effort to put one's work into the world after all other possibilities have been exhausted. It is assumed that self-published work is of lower quality than work that has been carried from one end of the bed of coals to the other. The self-published poet, who merely walks around the fire and joins the published poet on the other end, is considered a fraud, a coward, a failure. But I consider self-publication to be an inherently brave act, an act, often, of necessity, even of desperation. And I think that Dickinson, Stanford and Knott deserve praise for the fact that, confident in the quality of their work, and either stymied by or distrustful of the gatekeepers their poems had to pass through, walked up to the bed of coals they were being asked to walk, and simply walked around it.

But, first, to return to this idea of fruition. No work of art feels finished unless it crosses the threshold that separates the artist from others. This is not to say that art need be placed in the hands of others, but it is to say that, in some sense, the artist must divest themselves of their art, in the way that, though oaks tend to hold their leaves until late into winter, they have to eventually bump their old leaves off to make room for the new ones. In the fascicles that Emily Dickinson sewed in her room in Amherst, in the manuscripts Frank Stanford put together and never published (amongst which one finds titles such as: PLAIN SONGS; SMOKING GRAPEVINE; WOUNDS; AUTOMATIC CO-PILOT; MAD DOGS; THE LAST PANTHER IN THE OZARKS; FLOUR THE DEAD MAN BRINGS TO THE WEDDING; DURING THE NIGHT OF THE HIGH WATER; SOME POEMS WHO DREAMED THEY WERE MANDOLINS AND A DARK BREAD; POEMS FLOATING UP EYELESS ON SUNDAY MORNING; POEMS WHO LEFT WITHOUT A WORD OF FAREWELL; POEMS DRUNK FROM A PAPER SACK LONG BEFORE I CAME OF AGE; SOME POEMS WHO SUFFOCATED LIKE LIGHTNING BUGS IN THE BOOTLEGGER'S JAR; POEMS BURIED IN THE MOON LAKE LEVEE; ONE-FINGER ZEN), in the poems Bill Knott put up on his blog, for free, for years, some of which appear in his posthumously-published collected poems, we can see the need on behalf of the creator to bring their work across the threshold and to place it in the world in some way. This is what I mean by fruition.

So when it's said that a self-published poet has given up on publishing their work and decided to take it upon themselves to "get their work out there," I think we ought to see that as a courageous act, rather than a capitulation (and certainly we ought not to see it as selfish). I think poets would be generally happier, and readers too, if more poets, trusting their work, feeling that it is finished and ought to be placed in the world, took it upon themselves to do so, rather than submitting their work for acceptance or rejection. As Frank Stanford said: "You know there is no other poet on earth like me. I know there is no other poet on earth like you. We need to be read."

In the next three days, I will write more specifically about fruition in the work of Dickinson, Stanford and Knott.
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Leaping Fiction, Multiple POVs, and an example...

I’ve been thinking while working on a new short story about my tendency to splinter my stories into sections, and into multiple points of view. I hardly ever write a story anymore that behaves itself and remains within a single protagonist’s experience. I’ve never cared for the word “protagonist,” or should I say the idea of it, and for more years than I want to admit I wasn’t even precisely sure what a “protagonist” was, in the same way that I’m still not sure how one pronounces the word “pedagogy” (peda-GOD-gee or peda-GO-gee?). I was beginning to wonder whether my tendency to break short stories up in this way was an avoidance of the hard but necessary work of conveying a single character’s experience. But, being in a more forgiving mood towards myself tonight, I see that this approach to the story (and, by extension, the novel, though the device is perhaps much more common in the novel, for the sheer fact of the novel's length) operates like certain Robert Bly and Tomas Tranströmer poems do (no coincidence in putting these two poets together, as they were dear friends, correspondents, co-translators). Bly and Tranströmer's poems are often divided into discreet, Roman numeral-numbered sections, making of the body of the poem a tripartite being. I think that something about this splintered structure must have appealed to Bly, what with all his proselytizing about “leaping poetry,” poems in which the poet (and, it follows, the reader) makes courageous jumps, like kids trying to get across a creek by jumping from rock to tipsy rock. Bly argued that American poets didn’t do enough leaping, but that European and South American poets were veritable frogs. Now if poetry can leap, why can’t fiction?

The stories that bore me the most at the moment are those which portray a single consciousness, a consciousness that usually dwells in the same literary center (New York, LA) that the writer does, and that features any of the following: a subtle, epiphanic (sorry Joyce) realization of either the failure or the grandiosity of their life; references to academia, writing, prizes, New York, The New Yorker, the literary world in general; and a sense that the best way to experience fiction is to experience it while being straightjacketed in the circumstances of a particular character on a particular day. My favorite short story writers (James Salter, Alice Munro) resist this: Salter because, no matter who Salter is writing about, he’s Salter; Munro because her stories are so ambitious (and long) and tend to proceed not from character but from a particular detail (just read the beginning of “The Love of a Good Woman," which begins with an object in a museum, the significance of which only becomes apparent much later in the story).

Anyway, instead of working on my short story this morning, I was thinking about all this, when I realized that “leaping fiction,” for lack of a better phrase, is much more familiar to us than we may think. Isn’t every Shakespeare play a piece of writing with many points of view? If we remained with Hamlet and Hamlet alone, how dreary a play it would be! I like that what is being offered is the freedom, as readers or as theatergoers, to view the whole story, across space and time, while each character is hemmed in by circumstance and by what they do and do not know. This is the effect of certain novels also, such as ANNA KARENINA. Every time we leap from the Anna-Vronsky story to the Levin-Kitty story, we make the kind of leap Bly is describing. There is a sense of simultaneity and, why deny it, of power on our behalf, for having made the leap, and for being capable of keeping the characters of one storyline frozen like they’re in a mannequin challenge while bidding the characters of the other storyline to please proceed. In a short story with a traditional protagonist, the character is hemmed in by circumstance (as all characters are), while we are hemmed in by the character. Anything we learn will have to be learned via that single character, the way that anything that sustains a fetus must first pass through the mother.

In thinking about all of this instead of working on my story, I was reminded of when I attended a very well-known writers' conference a few years ago. I was in a workshop being overseen by two famous writers. I turned in a short story, which I’ll paste below, which one of the two famous writers seemed to truly despise, not because it was poorly written, but because, this famous writer said, it lacked any moral point. It was simply cruel. There was no redemption, no sense of levity, nothing for the reader to walk away with aside from having witnessed a tragedy and the resultant grief. If you’re interested in reading the story without first hearing me say too much more about it, you can scroll down and read it now, because I’m going to mention the very final image. That being said, because it’s not a traditional story, with a single protagonist who begins in one place and ends, after a subtle revelation or epiphany, in another, it probably doesn’t much matter that you know how the story ends (and perhaps this was the famous writer’s point).

The story, called “The Lion and the Lamb,” is about the death of a schoolgirl and the effect her death has on those surrounding her (her classmates, her teacher, the son of the bus driver who ran her over, her father, etc.). I had the idea of a tragedy that would radiate out like ripples from a stone dropped in water, touching a diverse range of characters whose connections to the girl all differed in kind and in intensity, demonstrating something about how a single death is really splintered into precisely as many deaths as there are people whom it touches. But what I think this famous writer was saying was that this revelation of mine (not really a revelation at all, just a fact) was not enough, that the job of the fiction writer is to make the senseless world make some sense, and that this was something my story failed to do, perhaps because so much of the word count (it had to be a short story, after all) was occupied with making leaps between characters.

In my defense, I believe that the story does transcend mere tragedy. Though the famous writer didn’t reference Keats, they might have been arguing something similar to what he argues in a letter (I’m paraphrasing): that we resent any art that has a palpable design upon us. It seemed to the famous writer that my palpable design was to inflict pain on the reader, to make them feel bad, without giving them anything in return. That the story was based on the death of a 2nd grade classmate of mine named Rebecca, whose death was the first death I experienced, the first time of knowing one who one day is and the next day isn’t, should be of no significance here, because I would never defend the quality of my story by arguing that it’s based on fact, as if this would necessarily mean that there must be something solid in it. Instead, I would reject the famous writer’s implication that the story is merely tragic. The last image of the story is of an apple tree that the school planted in memory of the girl. The tree is fruiting out and the girl’s teacher, older now, walks out and picks an apple. If that’s not a moment of resurrection and redemption, I don’t know what would be.

Again, I think it all comes back to this splintered approach to point of view. Had I behaved and remained in a single character’s experience, the teacher’s, for instance, the reader may have been better guided in how this tragedy effected the life of a single individual, and how they survived it. But I kept leaping from one character to the next, oftentimes not returning to them, leaving them alone in their grief and bafflement. I had hoped that by doing so, these characters would, in total, suggest more than I could say through any one of them alone, the way that a suspension bridge is held aloft over dark water by hundreds of cables that themselves lack the strength to hold it, but manage to make it effortless when joined together. Now, for a harsh statement: if we imagine that this famous writer I’ve been talking about (who only seemed to have the energy to tell me what was wrong with the story, rather than suggesting ways to fix it) crossed the bridge of the story but never for one moment trusted it to hold them, I feel no blame ought to be placed upon the bridge or the bridge maker. But I leave it to you now: here it is: once you’ve made it across (assuming you do), feel free to let me know how sound you found it.


I. Evan

He was on the playground with a group of boys who were shaking young trees to dislodge the ice. It laved the branches, encasing them in a translucence that was like glass. He himself did no shaking. He had thought what the ice had done beautiful when he woke that morning out in the country. At breakfast, when he was asked to come to the window to see it, he pretended not to have noticed it yet to give his father the pleasure of showing him. Now, he pushed his sleeves up to his elbow and picked up a piece that fit perfectly over his forearm like a cast. The sensation was the same as when he plunged his arm in cold milk to make up the bottles for the calves. Inspired by his idea, a few of the other kids who weren’t around the trunk did the same, but their pieces didn’t fit as well as his did.

Evan Johnson was one of the few kids at Jane Addams Elementary who still lived on a farm. His life was divided between the country and the town, the two halves not quite fitting together, like the halves of a broken plate. Hence his shyness. The teachers loved him. He possessed all the qualities they yearned to see in their students and in their own children. He never caused trouble and answered when called on. Working on an assignment, his tongue would loll out in concentration. His mother came to every parent-teacher conference, holding her chapped hands under the table. Her son smelled faintly of the barn. He was one of the few kids whose lives the teachers would follow. Years hence, he would still receive carefully penned notes from Miss Wilson, congratulating him on graduation, or a job. Sometimes there would be a lilac-colored check tucked into the card, “a little something to help you get started.” But somehow he wouldn’t grow up to be the sort of man who would write back to thank her.

This morning, despite it being strictly forbidden, Evan had followed the boys off the parking lot and into the grass, stiff as gelled hair. He couldn’t afford not to. They would make fun of him if he started towards the school, where the girls and the kids in the younger grades stood in little clusters, sliding tentatively on the slick black ice, waiting for the door to open. They would tease him about Rebecca Johnson. The fact that they happened to share the same last name meant they were always next to one another in the seating chart, their names paired in all announcements. He knew what was in her desk, she knew what was in his. In the late morning they heard one another’s stomachs growl. When one of them sneezed, the other blessed the other under their breath.

Valentine’s Day had reminded the boys to make fun of Evan and Rebecca. All the valentines were supposed to be handed in to Miss Wilson, who would then hand them back out along with those she herself had made so no one would feel left out, but Rebecca had passed a note to Evan directly. Evan and Rebecca, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage. To so much as go near her now was to risk having to hear this chanted. They were living like young lovers forbidden from marrying. But he was always aware of her, and she of him. The fact that they couldn’t talk to one another openly made their affection more poignant. It was indirect and oblique, like looking at the sun.

The kid who gave Evan the hardest time about Rebecca was named Francis. In his brutishness he seemed to anticipate the days when he himself would be bullied for having a name that could be spelled Frances. His mouth was large and red and glistening wet, already lecherous, all tongue and gums. One of those boys the teachers told their spouses about over supper. “I could’ve strangled him,” they said. By middle school he would be called Frannie the Fannie. Only in high school would he regain his elementary school popularity by becoming one of the most trusted drug dealers at Pearl City High.

As Francis approached the group shaking trees, he called out from a distance, as if unable to keep the sentence from slipping out of his wet mouth: “Your girlfriend’s dead!” The kids who’d heard him turned. Others were still shaking the tree, stepping back out from under the falling ice like a wrecking crew.

Nearer now, he said, “Evan, your girlfriend’s dead.”

“No she’s not,” said a boy named Derrick, his hands around the black trunk of the sapling.

“Yea she is. My dad says she got run over. Flatter in a pancake.”

He clapped his hands together when he said pancake.

“If she’s dead then why’s she right over there?”

They all looked towards where Derrick was pointing. A group of Rebecca’s friends were standing obediently near the door in long coats, each of a single, strong color: blue, pink, yellow. Evan looked in vain for the red wool coat he knew her by, with its brass buttons shaped like sheep, one of which had fallen off, and which Rebecca had given to him along with the valentine, saying, simply, “He likes to travel.”

“I just saw her. She’s over there,” Derrick said doubtfully. They moved as a group towards the next ice-laden tree. Sensing that he wasn’t being believed, Francis looked around for someone to confirm the fact that Rebecca Johnson was dead. A black boy named Darius, who rode the same bus, was off at a distance, in his own world, as always.

“Darius. Darius!” Francis said, but Darius was preoccupied, having withdrawn his arms into his gray sweatshirt to whip the sleeves around. The school kept giving him donated coats, but he kept coming back without them.


Dizzy, he stopped and looked at Francis, the sleeves dangling down.

“Isn’t Rebecca dead?”

“Yep,” he said, and resumed whipping his sleeves. “She died. My brother say she got run over by a bus. By a bus, by a bus, by a bus…” He said it over and over, in rhythm with his sleeves, which he whipped harder and harder as he sang, flailing his back and sides.

The doors had opened. Kids were being sucked into the school as if against their will. The boys gave the tree one last hard shake and started in slowly in subconscious protest at school not being canceled. Evan walked ahead, trying to get away from the group, but Francis appeared alongside him, muttering, “Flatter in a pancake, flatter in a pancake, flatter in a pancake…” clapping his hands together in the rhythm learned from Darius.

Mrs. Avery was on door duty. Evan hadn’t had her yet, she taught fourth grade, but everyone could feel her power, the way a fishing village feels the first gusts of a hurricane still far out at sea. They called her Mrs. Gravery. Her breath smelled. There was something wrong with her hips. Every summer she had another surgery, but she only seemed to be getting more and more hobbled. She limped down the hall, yelling indiscriminately. Most mornings she would have said, “I told you boys not to step off that parking lot,” or, “Don’t think I didn’t see you shaking those trees,” but this morning she said nothing, just stood there counting kids, like a farmer counting hens after a fox kill, her jowls swaying like a waddle. Evan ducked under his number and went in.

The hallway was loud with squeaky shoes and voices, but as they entered the classroom they fell silent. Miss Wilson was standing at the blackboard with a man in a rumpled suit. He was bald. His hands were behind his back. He leaned over slightly, looking alternately down at the floor and up at them, his forehead furrowing and unfurrowing, the two parts of his tie scissoring apart.

They took their places at their desks, but there was confusion because Rebecca’s was gone. Evan was standing next to a girl named Marcy May.

“Good morning, class.”

“Good morning, Miss Wilson!”

“Today we have a visitor who’s going to talk to us about something very important. Let’s have a seat on the magic carpet.”

Evan still believed Miss Wilson when she said that every night the magic carpet rolled itself up and slipped through the window she left open for it and flew all over the earth, having all sorts of adventures, before returning to the room just before they walked in in the morning. She claimed that if you put your ear to the carpet you could hear it trying to catch its breath. When Rebecca had told him that the sheep liked to travel, he’d suggested they put him on the magic carpet so he could see the world, but she’d worried he’d fall off somewhere over the sea.

“He can’t swim,” she’d said.

“Good morning. My name is Mr. Hartman. As Miss Wilson said, I have something very important to talk to you about. But first, I have a few questions for you. Raise your hand if you’ve ever had a pet…”

II. Miss Wilson

The call came late at night. She was already in bed, reading. It was Principal Moss. One of her students was dead. Their faces hovered in her head, the students she loved most, Evan, Marcy, Darius. For a moment, all twelve were in danger, as if cowering in a closet. When he said, “Rebecca,” all faces but hers disappeared. Around this face appeared others, some distinct (her mother’s), others vague (her father’s and older sister’s). It was like turning a kaleidoscope. She heard herself ask how. He seemed reticent to tell her, then told her she’d been run over by the back wheels of the bus. She must have slipped on the ice after getting off. She was the last kid to be dropped off on that route. The driver didn’t even know what had happened until that evening.

“She almost made it,” Principal Moss said. The line fell silent. No one would say it, but this almost made it worse. He told her a counselor from the high school named Mr. Hartman would come to her class in the morning to talk to the kids, then wished her goodnight and hung up.

The book was still splayed open on the bed. Memoirs of a Geisha. She dog-eared the page, but she would never finish the book. She moved from room to room, crying violently, as if she were vomiting, sitting down at random, now in the living room, now in the kitchen. Spread over the kitchen table were cutouts of lions and lambs for the March calendar. So far it had been lions, lions, lions. She had drawn them so they growled in cartoonish ferocity. Without thinking she covered the lions with the innocence of the lambs.

It was only her second year teaching. After she was hired Mrs. Avery had cornered her in the teachers’ lounge to urge her not to get attached to the students or the school, to leave it all behind when she went home for the day. Mrs. Avery had bragged about never working in the evenings or on the weekends. Her summers were given over to surgeries and soap operas. It was as if Mrs. Avery had suspected that Miss Wilson would approach teaching not just as a job but as a calling, and was afraid of looking bad in comparison.

Pearl City was far from the Chicago suburb where Natalia Wilson had grown up. She was still trying to establish a life for herself, living in an apartment above Luedecke’s Jewelry & Pawn on Main Street, aware always of all those rings glowing in glass cases below her. Every Sunday, when they talked on the phone, her mother asked her playfully when she was going to get married. When, to change the subject, she started telling her mother about how the other teachers didn’t seem to like her, her mother told her that it must be jealousy. It was her beauty they resented, a comment that allowed her mother to ask her if she’d met anyone since the last time they’d spoken. She’d never told her mother about the photographer who’d come to the school to take class pictures in the gymnasium back in the fall. A nervous, mousy man who couldn’t keep his hands still, he had asked her afterwards if he could take her out for dinner some night. She’d said yes, though he wasn’t attractive. On that first date she’d had too much wine, and told him that she’d learned clear back in high school that she could never have kids. Her students would be her children. She told him that she imagined herself growing old in that town, thousands of kids passing through her grade and disappearing until their kids appeared, and then theirs. She would be like one of those characters in an Alice Munro story, living a life both courageous and provincial. He hadn’t read Alice Munro.

When she couldn’t cry anymore, she washed her face and brushed her teeth, then lay in bed with the lamp on, remembering. She winced at something she had said to Rebecca that day, only hours before she died. She’d been writing on her desk again, her only bad habit. A woman from the school district had been in the room at the time, supposedly to provide feedback, but Miss Wilson had had the sense all day that she was being judged. In her past evaluations she had been cautioned not to be too encouraging of the kids. Catching Rebecca writing on her desk was an opportunity to show this woman, who she disliked, and whom she sensed disliked her, that she could wield authority in the classroom.


Even as the girl looked up she was already flipping the pencil deftly in her small hand and inaccurately erasing what she had written. Miss Wilson could have walked away right then, but she had to let the woman from the school district see her act as a disciplinarian. Introducing an edge into her naturally warm voice, the way one runs cold water into a scalding bath, she said, “Rebecca, how many times do I have to tell you not to write on your desk?”

“Sorry, Miss Wilson,” Rebecca said, looking down, erasing more accurately now, the words smearing on the laminated wood, the rubber rolling up in little pills, a faint smell of burning. When she glanced over at her, the woman from the school district was making a note, a satisfied look on her face.

The morning after Rebecca died she got to school early, before the magic carpet was supposed to have returned from its journeying. The lot was empty. The janitors weren’t even there yet. She loved the janitors, solemn in their blue shirts, their names scrawled in cursive with red thread on white patches. Most had been laid off by auto body repair shops and factories, or had had to find new jobs after selling their herds. They spent their days replacing light bulbs and mopping floors, while their skills as mechanics and machinists and farmers atrophied. She gave them gifts at Christmas, which they tried at first to decline, then shyly accepted. They called her Mrs. Wilson, as if they couldn’t believe she wasn’t married.

It was so early the cafeteria workers weren’t there yet, either. It was strange to pass the doorway to the kitchen and not hear the clanging of stainless steel bowls or smell that odor, always the same no matter what was on the menu, of steamed carrots and stewing meat.

Once in her room she locked the door behind her and went straight to Rebecca’s desk. Through the blur of erasure she read what she had written: I love Evan. I love Evan. I love Evan. On another part of the desk, she had written love backwards, evol, adding a little tail to the o so it looked like an a, drawing a little hook at the top of the l so it resembled an n, finding his name in the word for what she felt for him.

Picking at the tape with her nails, she peeled off the name tag Rebecca had written herself, the tops of the e’s and c’s and a touching the notebook-like line perfectly. She set it sticky side up on the blue chair that was attached to the desk by stainless steel bars covered in fingerprints and opened the desktop. She felt strange, going through her things. She tried to do it impersonally, the way you transfer someone else’s clothes from the washer to the drier. Going through the contents of the desk seemed like something her parents should be doing. She knew they were divorced, because depending on which parent she was staying with, Rebecca would get on a different bus after school. She had heard that her mother lived in an apartment on the east side, while her father still lived out on the western edge of town, on the rambling, messy, quasi-farmstead Rebecca had grown up on. He repaired chainsaws and weed whackers and lawn mowers. Miss Wilson passed the place every time she went to Galena. There were piles of wood everywhere, Stihl signs jabbed in the yard, various outbuildings engorged with rusting metal. She realized for the first time that there were two possible places where Rebecca might have died: outside that apartment on the east side, or out on Highway 20. She assumed it had happened out in the country. It seemed crueler that Rebecca might have gone to the other house. It introduced an element of flexibility into the tragedy. One would always have to wonder what if she’d gotten on the other bus that day.

When the desk was empty, she dragged it out into the hallway for one of the janitors to take away, then moved the other desks around to fill the absence. She opened the blinds. The sky was lightening but the day would be overcast. The classroom was on the west side of the school. She could hear the ice-covered branches tapping along the windowpanes like the canes of the blind. She took a folder out of her bag and went up to the board where the calendar hung. At the top it read: Will March Come In like a Lion and Go Out Like a Lamb? It was March 7th. Despite the gray skies and the wind, she pinned up a lamb.

III. Mr. Hartman

He had no illusions. He knew the school district had only called him because Mrs. Kubotsky was on a cruise in the Caribbean. His office was in the high school, where he worked mostly with adolescent boys. Boys whose families had escaped the gang wars of Chicago, their cheeks tattooed with black teardrops in memory of people they’d killed. Boys from the country who wore the same clothes every day, their forearms leopard-spotted with cigarette burns, their families cleaved in internecine feuds that went back generations. And he worked with the toughest girls, the ones the other counselors had given up on helping. Girls who came to his office swallowed up in hooded sweatshirts, kitchen knives sheathed in cardboard in their pockets, some with scratches on their left wrists like a rash only they could catch, and only in that one spot. He was like an interrogator whose methods are controversial but inarguably effective. His daughters had escaped to college like rabbits flushed from a warren. If they were having problems, they didn’t tell him. They had suffered through the indignity of having to see their father coming down the hall of the high school, slightly stooped because his back was bad. His back was bad because he’d been born with legs of drastically different lengths. The left had done some catching up, but there was still enough of a difference between them that he had to wear a special shoe with a six-inch rubber sole on his left foot.

His reward was when kids who he had struggled to help came back to the school years later to find him. Just the day before there’d been a message from the main office. A Mr. Irving was there to see him. “Send him right down,” Mr. Hartman said, then sat waiting in that little office they had given him, no larger than a closet, the chipped walls blank save for a poster of a sailboat struggling in rough seas, the word PERSEVERANCE airbrushed against the bruise-colored clouds, remembering the day Maurice told him he could go fuck himself, then ran down the hallway, reaching back to hold his sagging pants up. When Mr. Irving appeared in the doorway in a suit, Mr. Hartman rose and shook his hand like they were old friends. The three teardrops had faded to where they could easily have been mistaken for scars from oil spattering out of a pan, or a dog bite. They talked for a full hour, even as the bell rang and the classes let out and the halls filled with shouting and swearing, Mr. Hartman recognizing the voices of kids he was struggling to help now the way he had struggled to help Maurice Irving a decade before.

When Mr. Irving told him that God had given him the strength to follow the right path, Mr. Hartman nodded as if in agreement, despite the fact that he was a fervent atheist, even subscribing to a few publications. He believed that there was nothing beyond this blue eggshell of atmosphere but spheres and stars moving in accordance with inflexible laws, the same laws that had made this little girl slip on a patch of ice canted at just the right angle to make her slide under the bus just as it was pulling forward, the driver not even noticing the little bump of her body. There was no power watching over her in that moment. By stepping off the bus she had entered a matrix of facts: the fact that her shoes were old because her parents were divorced and poor and they had no tread left in the soles; the fact of the ice storm, which was the result of a thousand quirks of weather, and the position of the earth relative to the sun; the fact that the driveway sloped up from the road; the fact that the driver didn’t wait a moment to make sure she was clear of the bus because he was old and distractible and wanted to get home before the weather got worse.

He had no illusions. He knew he was not the right counselor to talk to these kids about the death of their classmate. He could point to a teardrop or a track mark and make kids tell him everything they had been holding in for years, but he couldn’t explain the death of an eight year-old girl. He cursed Mrs. Kubotsky, who was sitting on the deck of a cruise ship with a drink in her hand, staring out at the impossibly blue sea, while he was standing on a magic carpet in front of a group of third graders, their arms raised so high it was as if they were straining to touch the ceiling.

“Ok…Ok. Now raise your hands if you’ve had a pet who’s died.”

IV. The Superintendent

The superintendent was a meek-mannered man, hired just that fall in the wake of the ugly firing of the previous superintendent due to sexual harassment allegations that were never substantiated, but that everyone who had known the man and his accusers knew to be true. One of the things the new superintendent, whose name was Byron Richter, was told upon being hired was that the school district had to cut down on snow days. At the appearance of the first flakes the previous superintendent would call school off so he could stay home with his mistress, a secretary at the middle school, while his wife, who worked at an insurance company, had to go to work. To make up for snow days, the school year had to be extended deep into the month of June, which was torture for the students and the teachers because there was no air conditioning in the classrooms. At the first school board meeting the members had lectured Superintendent Richter on the fact that school should only be canceled in events of the very severest weather. It wouldn’t make him popular with the students, but this was irrelevant. It might not make him popular with the bus drivers and the teachers, either, but they’d forgive him when school let out on the day it was scheduled to. In his meek-mannered way, he had raised his hand like a boy at a desk and asked, “But what kind of weather would be considered severe enough to cancel school?” to which an older man, who had been on the school board for thirty years, said: “We don’t get those kinds of winters anymore.”

Now, sitting in his office the day after the death of Rebecca Johnson, he was certain that he would be blamed for not letting school out early so the buses could get the kids home before the roads turned to skating rinks. He had arrived at the school district offices early, earlier than the secretaries and staff, in order to avoid running into anyone. Now it was late morning, and he was feeling a strong need, approaching an urgent one, to pee. He had already ignored one knock on the door, and he knew that as soon as he walked out of his office his secretary would barrage him with messages from concerned parents and questions from the press. He recalled that scene in Shawshank Redemption, when the corrupt prison warden, hearing the sirens in the distance, opens a desk drawer, takes out a revolver, slips a bullet into the chamber, tilts his head back, and pulls the trigger, the bullet crashing through his brain and out the window. Then he told himself what his wife told him last night: that it wasn’t his fault. It was an accident. And even if it could have been avoided by letting the schools out at noon, the school board was as much to blame as he was for pressuring him not to cancel school.

Still, he couldn’t help but imagine her father showing up one night at his house on Pearl Street, the nicest street in Pearl City, a gun in his hand. It would be just like me, he thought, to die in my pajamas.

He laughed and shook his head. It was just another movie scene. He’d seen too many. He looked again at the screen he’d been staring at all morning, the cursor blinking pleadingly at the end of the phrase: By now you must have heard… Even the salutation seemed awkward: Dear Parents of Students at Jane Addams Elementary. He stood up and went to the window. His office was on the first floor, the window blocked by a row of evergreen shrubs that reminded him, in their color and coarseness, of steel wool.

Suddenly inspired, he turned back to the desk, found a travel mug his wife had given him for Christmas (#1 School Superintendent!!!), poured the old coffee out into the wastepaper basket, and filled it to the brim with urine. Sitting back down, he deleted the phrase, By now you must have heard, the words disappearing letter by letter backwards, to start over again, the mug steaming as if full of fresh coffee.

V. The Bus Driver’s Son

The manager of the bus barn found Jason Whittaker’s name under, “Who to contact in case of emergency,” on the form she had her drivers fill out when she hired them. If she hadn’t called him it might have been weeks before his father mentioned it casually, in passing, during one of their rare phone conversations. He would have said, “That was some ice storm we had a few weeks back, did you see that one coming?” Then, so softly his son would hardly have heard him: “Lost a little girl here one night. Slipped under the back tires…” When he asked the manager how his father was doing, she told him it was hard to tell. She was glad he could come stay through the night.

He was supposed to be on air at six and ten, and again in the morning. He was the head meteorologist for Channel 23-WKPX. When he knocked on the producer’s door an hour before he was supposed to go on, already wearing a suit and the makeup that barely hid his age in the bright studio lights, and told him there was an emergency at home, his boss seemed understanding, but underneath his calm demeanor was frustration. His hand shook as he reached for the phone to call the substitute, a good-looking kid who everyone liked, and who Jason increasingly believed was going to be brought up to replace him permanently. Soon, no makeup would hide the wrinkles, no dye the graying temples, and Jason would be relegated to the back room, staring at radar and coaching the kid who it was clear already needed no coaching. The day was nearing when Jason would only appear on TV in severe weather situations as a kind of senior advisor, urging people to seek shelter in cellars, in closets, in interior rooms away from windows.

Outside Peoria, he saw firsthand the havoc the ice storm had wrought. PG&E crews were working to clear downed trees. He saw a severed line sparking blue with voltage, and was surprised by the casualness with which the men worked around it in their orange vests. But the further north he drove, the better the roads were. When he crossed into Pearl County, the landscape had a drenched appearance, as after several days of rain. The woods were dripping black. Redwing blackbirds crouched miserably on the fences, crows clutched the power lines. He turned down roads with green, bullet-riddled signs, passed houses that hadn’t changed since he was a boy, and pulled down the long farm lane, laid with fresh gravel. He knew his father had asked for permission to keep the bus in an empty shed on the farm to save himself trips to and from town in his own car. But the bus, which was usually sticking out of the shed to the fourth window, like a horse standing half-in and half-out of its stable, was gone. A car he didn’t recognize was parked in the drive, blocking his father’s truck in.

They were sitting at the kitchen table. His father was so focused on the cards in his hand he barely glanced up to see who had walked in, but a woman with frizzy gray hair turned and welcomed him, and a large man who seemed pinched between the table and his chair offered a folksy, “How do you do?” All three were smoking cigarettes, the smoke unraveling like yarn and pooling at the ceiling. There were containers of Chinese food on the table, grains of rice sticking to the undersides of the lids and to the little wire handles. After years of refusing to eat rice, his father had finally had some by accident and now he loved Chinese food.

He took his shoes off out of respect for his dead mother and sat down across from his father, who was still focusing all his attention on his hand, moving cards around to make runs. They were playing gin rummy.

“I’m Linda,” the woman said, and he knew it was the manager of the bus barn he’d spoken with on the phone. “There’s plenty of food left if you’re hungry.”

He was but he shook his head and pretended to be very interested in the game.

“There it is,” his father said, picking up a card that had turned up and putting another facedown on the pile. He laid his hand out on the table so they could lean forward and see how he had won. Jason knew that his father had never been good at cards, and from the deftness with which the large man handled his hand he wondered whether they were letting his father win.

“We’ve got four,” his father said, “we can play euchre now.”

“I think we better head home, Jim,” Linda said, standing up. With difficulty the large man extricated himself from his chair, setting his losing cards facedown on the table.

“I’ll be in Monday,” his father said, as if testing the waters.

“I think you should take a week off, Bill Whittaker,” Linda said, using his full name with a tender authority.

When they were gone, his father scooped up the cards and tried to shuffle them in a bridge, but they vied stiffly with each other and wouldn’t form an arch. Then he cut the deck and handed half to Jason and without saying a word they started playing war, the first game his father had taught him when he was a boy. It was something to do.

“You didn’t have to drive all the way up here,” his father said in the midst of a rash of victories. “Shouldn’t you be on TV?”

The station he worked for didn’t reach Pearl County, and Jason had always had the feeling that his father didn’t quite believe that he was on television.

“No, I’m off for a few days. I’ve been sick,” he lied, introducing a hoarseness into his voice.

There was a tie. They each laid three cards face down and flipped again. He winced when he saw he’d won two of his father’s aces.

“Can I have one of those?” Jason said.

“You don’t smoke. And anyway I thought you said you were sick,” his father said as he handed him one.

They smoked together in that dingy kitchen in that old house far out in the country. Jason was thirsty, he would have loved a drink, but he was glad that there was no alcohol in the house. It was a night reminiscent of the winter night his mother had died. The same interminable hours, the same west wind howling at the west-facing windows. They finally began to tire of the game and gave up playing, like two elks with interlocked antlers dying together in the woods.



“It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“I know that.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say, ‘It wasn’t my fault.’”

“It wasn’t my fault. There, you happy?”

They were quiet for a long time, and he could tell his father was mad at him for making him say it, but also comforted, somehow.

“You didn’t eat your fortune cookies,” Jason said.

“I don’t want ‘em. Never liked ‘em.”

Jason opened the bags and broke the cookies in half in a priestly way and pulled out the little slips of white paper with their symbols and lucky numbers written in plum-colored ink.

You already know the answers to the questions lingering inside your head, one said. The other said, Keep your eye out for someone special.

His father picked them up and read them without interest, dropping them into one of the to-go containers.

Lying in his boyhood bedroom, Jason couldn’t sleep. He lay there wondering what his father would do if the school district rescinded his bus license. He knew that driving bus was what gave him a reason to get up in the morning. His father had told him that he bought big bags of candy at Farm & Fleet to hand out to the kids if they were good. When Jason asked which candy was their favorite, his father said, “Dumbbell suckers. They like the variety. They like that they might get any kind.” And though his father would never admit it, he seemed to have made friends with the other drivers, many of whom were retired farmers like himself. He assumed the big man who had lost in cards was one of them. From what he understood, his father spent his days in the shop at the bus barn, drinking coffee with the mechanics, giving them advice they hadn’t asked for.

The wind was picking up. He knew a storm was coming, a worse storm than the one that had just hit. Lying in bed, he was reminded of the great storms of his childhood, the thunderstorms and blizzards and, on at least one occasion, a verified tornado. He remembered the thrill he would feel when whatever soap opera his mother was watching cut away to a green radar aerial of Pearl County, breaking out in rashes of yellow and red. Sometimes his father would come up from the barn and tell them to go down into the cellar, though he would never join them himself, as if he were immune to danger. It had all contributed to his fascination with weather, and his desire to be a weatherman, despite the fact that all his childhood his father had railed against the stupidity of the profession. There was a godlike prescience about it, this ability to predict the weather. And the idea that he might save a family one day by alerting them to the fact that they were in the path of a storm gave the job a certain valor.

It hadn’t turned out to be as romantic a life as he’d imagined, but it was a life nonetheless. Still, he found himself being drawn home, first for the auction, then for his mother’s rapidly worsening illness and death, and now this. At Christmas, the last time he had visited, he had promised himself that the next time he visited he would come out to his father, tell him what he couldn’t imagine his father didn’t know already: that James was not one of several unnamed and fictitious housemates, but his lover, his entire reason for being. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of telling his father that he was gay. What he was afraid of was dashing any last hopes his father may have been harboring that he would have grandchildren to play with one day, a daughter-in-law to flirt with and admire. But he couldn’t tell him now, not in the wake of what had happened.

He was woken in the night by sleet hitting the window, a scattering sound like chickenfeed. Under the noise of the weather he heard steps in the hall. Imagining the worst scenario possible, he went downstairs and waited in the kitchen, listening to his father urinating weakly, intermittently. When he came out Jason occupied himself at the sink, filling a glass of water.

“What?” his father asked, his hair tousled, backlit by the bathroom light.

“I didn’t… I thought you were going somewhere.”

“Where the hell would I go in this?”

“I don’t know…”

“Can’t a man get up in the night and take a leak?”

VI. Her Father

The door of Morton Saint’s Tap slammed open violently as if from a gust of wind and Cecil Johnson walked in. As soon as he entered the demeanor of the place changed. What had been a jovial if quiet Friday night crowd grew quieter. Conversation died. People looked down into their glasses as if suddenly doubting what they’d been drinking, or started playing with coasters. Mort was drying pint glasses with a yellowing rag. He was a big man, with big hands, and he could only reach halfway into the glasses. As he set them upside down on the shelves, the bottom halves of the glasses were still wet.

He was already drunk. Mort guessed that he had walked all the way from Burke Funeral Home. Near the end of the wake some relative must have forced him to hand over his car keys. He was wearing a suit and tie, but the knot had come loose, his shirt untucked in the back. His suit coat was flung over one shoulder. He stood there a moment, as if challenging anyone to say he couldn’t be there, then walked up to the bar, swaying this way and that, as if crossing the deck of a ship. Those who knew who he was whispered sympathies as he passed, but he seemed not to hear them. He sat down, nearly falling off the stool before achieving a precarious balance, like a bird of prey alighting in a pine sapling. He leaned down and tried to hang his suit coat on one of the hooks under the bar but it didn’t catch and slipped to the floor. He didn’t notice.

“What’ll you have, Cecil? It’s on me,” Mort said.

“Double of Jameson, no ice,” Cecil said, brandishing a crisp bill as if to tell everyone he didn’t want drinks bought for him, didn’t want their sympathy.

Mort poured a little less than a double. It was closer to a shot and a half. Without touching the glass, Cecil leaned down to look at it like a chemist measuring out solution, his fingers curled back into his palms, and laughed. The laugh said My daughter gets run over by a bus and I can’t even get a double shot when I order one. Mort came back over with the bottle and topped the glass off so it brimmed. Cecil leaned down and sipped the whiskey down half an inch, then picked up the glass and downed it in two gulps.

People tried to pick up the conversations they’d put down when he walked in, but it was impossible to ignore him. A man no one seemed to know but who seemed to know who everyone was leaned over and said, without preface, “Had a big pine go down in that storm but my damn saw keeps cutting out. I’ve tried everything. Changed the filter, adjusted the idle. Could you take a look at it if I brought it by Monday?”

The inanity of this remark, the callousness of it, made everyone turn as suddenly as if Mort had dropped a glass. It would have been forgivable had the man not known why Cecil Johnson was wearing a suit and tie, but it was obvious that he did and was only trying to break the silence. Cecil said nothing. He made no sign that he had heard the man at all. The man finished his beer and slapped the bar in silent thanks and left. Cecil had pushed his empty glass towards Mort.

“I can’t give you another,” Mort said.

“I’m not driving.”

“I still can’t.”

Cecil stood up and went around behind the bar as if he worked there. Mort held his hands up to let him know he wasn’t going to interfere, and went back to drying glasses. A man at the other end of the bar had his head in his hands, watching through his fingers, like a boy watching a horror movie. Another man had laid his head on the bar. Cecil took the bottle of Jameson by the neck and carried it back to his stool. He poured out a shaky shot, then kept the bottle close, like a dog guarding a bone.

He wanted to drink enough to pass out, so that when Mort carried him outside in the dead of night he wouldn’t wake up. He wanted Mort to drive him senseless through the dark town and out into the country, to fumble through his pockets for the keys, trying all the wrong ones before finding the one that fit the lock, only to find that the door had been open all along. He wanted Mort to take his shoes off and his tie and tuck him into bed like a child. And he wanted to wake in his bed in the morning, with a splitting headache and no memory of the night before. He would be hung over but sober at the funeral so as to bury his daughter in clarity. Then he would leave town. He would move somewhere where no one knew him. He would be that man who suddenly appears in a town in the spring, who buys a house before he finds a job, a mystery for women still single in late middle age to solve. He would only allow one of them into his life. And only after months of keeping it from her would he tell her about Rebecca. While she was getting dressed for dinner, one earring in her ear, the other in her hand.

VII. The Tree

The saying proved true that year: March went out like a lamb. The days turned tender. The trees leafed out. Instead of the tapping of canes, there was a rustling along the windows like the train of a wedding dress. The janitors, who were also the landscape gardeners, were working around the school in the slow but steady way of unsupervised men, their sleeves rolled up past their elbows, their blue shirts unbuttoned, reveling in the warming weather. When they noticed her standing there, they said, “Morning Mrs. Wilson.” Some stood up, dusting their knees off, while others paid more careful attention to what they were planting, as if she was their boss.

“Is Lawrence around?”

“I think… oh, here he comes.”

She turned to where they were looking. Lawrence was coming around the corner of the school. Of all the janitors, she trusted Lawrence the most. His shirt was unbuttoned as well, and over the white undershirt he wore a thin gold necklace, the links so tiny that, cupped in your palm, it would feel like golden sand. He was carrying a shovel like a walking stick, letting the metal point clack loudly on the pavement, trying to make it spark. When he saw her, he picked the shovel up.

“Is it all ready, Lawrence?”

“Should be, Mrs. Wilson. If it isn’t deep enough we can always go deeper.”

“Was that a good spot, you think?”

“Oh yes. You’ve got plenty of space there, plenty of light.”

“What kind of tree is it, Mrs. Wilson?” one of the other janitors, a huge man they called Tiny Tim, asked as he struggled to his feet.

“An apple tree.”

She had bought the tree herself, from Demeester’s Nursery. When she told Mrs. Demeester what she was looking for, she nodded and suggested an apple tree. They were beautiful when they blossomed. The only thing was to make sure someone picked the apples so they didn’t foul the ground with rot and attract bees. She drove home with the sapling on the seat beside her, the seatbelt fastened. The white roots were reaching through the holes in the bottom of the plastic, as if in desperation for the earth. She brought it into her house and watered it. Getting up in the middle of the night to pee, it spooked her, standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Before picking the tree out she had had the man who owned the dusty trophy shop downtown make a plaque that would be set in the ground next to the trunk and had sent announcements to the paper and the local news stations that all were welcome to come to the playground behind Jane Addams Elementary at ten in the morning on Wednesday, March 24th, for the planting of a tree in memory of Rebecca Johnson. She had sent personal notes to Rebecca’s parents. The letter to Cecil Johnson went unanswered. Mary Johnson wrote back that she appreciated the gesture, and would be there with her daughter. In the p.s. of her letter, she requested that she remain in the crowd, and not be asked to come forth in front of everyone.

As soon as Miss Wilson led her class out the door held open by Mrs. Avery, she saw that it was going to be a small gathering. She regretted not scheduling the memorial for Saturday morning. There were only a dozen or so people standing awkwardly around the hole Lawrence had dug, the sapling standing beside it in the silence and remove of one about to give a speech. But as the school emptied, and teachers who had seen Rebecca Johnson in the hallway but had never had her in class gathered with their kids around them like ducklings, she was assured that the memorial would be remembered as a success. As she took her place between the tree and the hole prepared for it, she recognized a few faces in the crowd: Superintendent Richter, Mr. Hartman, the photographer, who was taking pictures, the woman from the school district who had evaluated her, and, near the back, Mary Johnson and her daughter. Aware of the gravity of the moment, her students were behaving: Darius was swaying slightly, his empty sleeves dangling down; Evan was turning something slowly in his hands; even Francis was standing still. They listened to Miss Wilson say a few things no one would remember, including Miss Wilson herself, and when she asked for volunteers to help her, the entire class rushed forward, forming a ring around the tree, straining to touch the slim trunk. When it was settled in the hole, they got down on their hands and knees and pushed the dirt in. Lawrence stood by, kinking the hose that ran all the way across the parking lot from the side of the school. He let the kids take turns watering the tree in, until he had to take the hose back, saying, “That’s enough now, that’s enough. Don’t wanna drown the poor thing.”

Since that day a quarter century has passed. Miss Wilson is fifty now. As she predicted on her first and last date with the photographer, she is teaching the children of old students of hers. They come to parent-teacher conferences now in the role of mothers. They sit there in the very classroom where they sat as third graders and don’t so much as look around, so fixated on what Miss Wilson has to say about their children. And when they look at their old teacher, they see only that she has aged. Their memory of her as a young woman is so vague that they leave the room believing that she always looked this haggard. Still, they wonder why she never married. It’s sad, really. Sitting in that same classroom for twenty-five years, calling kids to sit on the same musty old rug, all that stuff about the lion and the lamb.

As for Miss Wilson, the presence of these women in her room cannot eradicate her memory of them as girls. It is as if they exist simultaneously in two worlds. But for the life of her, Miss Wilson cannot remember Rebecca Johnson’s face. All she has to do is open the bottom drawer of her desk and flip through a few manila folders to find the class photograph, but for twenty-five years she has successfully repressed this urge.

Rebecca’s tree has never really taken hold. Maybe the kids really drowned it that day Lawrence let them take turns watering it in, or maybe the hole was a little too shallow (she’d thought this when they set the root ball in, but she couldn’t interrupt the memorial to tell Lawrence to dig it deeper). The tree blossoms, but it blossoms like a convalescent who feels well enough to take a short walk, then has to be helped back to bed. No one even knows what the tree stands for anymore, except for Miss Wilson and the handful of teachers who were here back then. The plaque has been forgotten and overgrown, dinged by lawnmower blades, the copper oxidizing, the raised font of her name traced in green.

But in the past few years the tree has finally started to produce a few apples it holds out hesitantly at the ends of its branches like a child whose hand a firefly has alighted upon. Some days, in the fall, after the buses have taken the kids away and the younger teachers have gotten into their cars with their vanity plates and furry steering wheels and boxes of tissue in the back window, Miss Wilson crosses the parking lot and walks across the grass to Rebecca’s tree. The apples are small and astringent and make her mouth dry, but she picks them all as they ripen, as if it would be shameful to let even one fall to the ground.
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Cover: Grateful Dead, "High Time"

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Cover: Townes Van Zandt, "Come Tomorrow"

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The Flower Seller


When I walked out of the temple
towards evening a man
with baskets of flowers
at his feet insisted
I take some I nodded
and smiled he nodded
and smiled and started
piling them up in my arms
like kindling bringing more
and yet more flowers up
from his baskets
even as I shook
my head laughing
until I couldn’t even see
the man anymore
when I set them down
gently he’d disappeared
people were still
coming out of the temple
I started insisting
they take some flowers
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It became clear to him,
after it became clear to him
no god was going to come down
from the sky and lift
the baler off his father’s chest,
that he had better start running.

He started running
down the road to the diner
his father had pointed out
as they rumbled past,
promising pie.

He knew the sort of men
he would find at the counter,
their flannel shirts crossed
with suspenders, knew the way
they would swivel towards him
when he burst in,
knew the looks they would give him
while waiting for him to draw
a big enough breath
to say what he had
to say to them
to make them follow.
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Lament for Poor Zebedee


It was a morning like any other.
I was in my boat with my sons,
Mending nets torn by barnacles,
Strained by catches so great
We laughed hauling them in.
We were nearly ready to set out
When he appeared on shore.
My sons heard what he shouted.
I didn’t. They climbed out
Of the boat and followed him.
I thought when I came in
That evening they’d be there.
They weren’t. Alone now,
An old man, I try to catch
Their faces, but all my nets are torn.
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I wake to the bells calling Vigils and remember
Mornings my father passed through my room
On his way to milk
I pretended to be asleep knowing
I should rise and follow him
But instead lay listening
To him leaving
Following him in my mind
As he followed the cows in
The way I follow the monks now
Into the dark chapel
Thinking how the bells have pulled us all
Out of sleep gently the way
You pull a few flowers to keep them
From crowding other flowers
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spin like men
spinning in circles
in the woods
holding long swords
out at arm’s length

their tips nicking the trunks
of ancient trees
that have stepped closer
to identify the men
who are growing dizzy

to hold their faces up
in the many green mirrors
of their leaves
and show the stars
who they are
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More than the taste of it, what I first loved
was the feel of the ticklish, curly, slightly stiff leaves
along the roof of my mouth. It was for this and not
out of hunger that we'd wander down to that shaded garden
in that suspended hour before supper, the beds too
dark for anything but herbs to grow in them,
sowing themselves spring after spring, continuing
in their green generations. For grazing on it
so much we hardly made a dent.
I must have had more parsley in one evening
of childhood than I’ve had in a decade as a man.
When I do encounter it now it’s always set off
to the side of the plate, garnishing the real meal.
But I always start with it, and at the first tickle
of its leaves along the roof of my mouth
I’m a boy again, standing by the bedside
of my mother’s kitchen garden.
It isn’t any particular summer evening
but all of them at once. Only when
I’m being called to come in for supper
do I come back to the table in the restaurant
in the city to find my friends
never noticed I was gone.
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Nostradamus Predicts the Appointment of Scott Pruitt to Behead the EPA


There shall appear one by the name of Pruitt.
Lovers of the earth they will boo it.
Defenders of the earth they will sue it.
Bird and fish and beast they will rue it.
Those with oil in their veins they will woo it.
Any kind of harm you can imagine he'll do it.
And you'll say, “Old Nostradamus, he knew it.”
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Alternative Facts About the State of Illinois


The state mineral of Illinois is Fluorite.
The state fossil of Illinois is the Tully Monster.
The state soil of Illinois is Drummer Silty Clay Loam.

The Sac and Fox used the area for hunting. The valley of the Pecatonica River was allotted to the Winnebago Indians. Chief Winneshiek had his village at the mouth of Spring Creek within the present limits of Freeport.

The state fish of Illinois is the Bluegill.
The state animal of Illinois is the White-Tailed Deer.
The state bird of Illinois is the Northern Cardinal.

William Waddams was the first permanent white settler in the county. The first white settlement was located in Kellogg’s Grove in 1827. It was located on the Galena-Dixon Trail.

The state flower of Illinois is the Eastern Violet.
The state tree of Illinois is the White Oak.
The state grass of Illinois is the Big Bluestem.

The stone monument, which stands on a hill near Kent, is in memory of the men that died during a minor battle in the Blackhawk War. The battle took place near Kellogg’s Grove on June 25, 1832. One of the soldiers in the company was Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln assisted with the burial and later made a statement about the experience.

The state insect of Illinois is the Monarch Butterfly.
The state amphibian of Illinois is the Eastern Tiger Salamander.
The state reptile of Illinois is the Painted Turtle.

“I remember just how those men looked as we rode up the little hill where their camp was. The red light of the morning sun was streaming upon them as they lay head towards us on the ground. And every man had a round red spot on top of his head, about as big as a dollar where the redskins had taken his scalp. It was frightful, but it was grotesque, and the red sunlight seemed to paint everything all over. I remember one man had on buckskin breeches.”

The state dance of Illinois is the Square Dance.
The state vegetable of Illinois is sweet corn.
The state snack food of Illinois is popcorn.

The Lincoln Tomb is the final resting place of the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, and three of their four sons. The nose on Borglum’s head of Lincoln remains shiny due to the tradition of rubbing Lincoln’s nose for good luck. Thousands of visitors rub the nose at the base of the tomb each year, preventing the nose from tarnishing and forming the brown patina that covers the rest of the head.
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The dead outnumber us.
The dead outnumber
The roses in the garden.

Outnumber the fish in the sea.
The birds in the air.
The stars we in the city see.

The dead outnumber us.
The dead outnumber the books
On the shelf. Indeed, outnumber

The words in the books.
The letters. The dead
Outnumber the hairs on my head.

I look at a thing. I break it
Down into as many pieces
As I can, and still it

Does not outnumber the dead.
All the chords ever strummed.
All the notes ever picked.

Neither outnumber
The dead. I lie
Down in this meadow.

Flowers. Petals. Grains
Of pollen. Never can I say,
“Here is a number

That outnumbers the dead.”
All evidence suggests
There is more that has been

And now is not than there is
That is. But as long as
I number myself

Amongst the living,
I find it hard
To believe.
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The Witness Tree


One spring day two men turned up the lane
At the end of which the witness tree stood
To mark where what was no longer
One man’s land ended and what was
No longer another man’s began.

They wanted to know what the witness tree had seen,
But it refused to tell them
About the murders of crows,
The disorderly conduct of frogs in the pond,
The embezzlement of the moon by the Bank of Clouds
And its counterfeiting in a thousand waters.

Finally, the men threw up
Their hands and drove away.

Summer came and the men with it.
Again, they asked the witness tree
To tell them what it had seen.
Again it declined to say anything
About the shooting stars,
The misdemeanor of the mist,
The abduction of the field mice,
The barbwiretapping of the pasture...

Losing patience, the men began planting
Flags at the corners of a square
The witness tree found itself standing
In the center of, as if under suspicion.

Then they drove away.

Autumn came and went.
Relieved, the witness tree let go
Of its green breath of leaves.
It stood naked and innocent,
Neither suspected of a crime
Nor questioned about something
It had seen.

But then, just when the sky was issuing
The first subpoenas of snow,
The men showed up again.
Hitched to the truck was a wood chipper.
In the bed were chainsaws and chaps,
Cans of gas and oil.

They gave the witness tree one last chance
To tell them what it had seen.
Afraid, the witness tree opened its mouth
To describe how the hunter had killed the doe
Despite the white tail she’d raised in surrender,
How the moon had been laundering its light,
How the ice had forged the signatures of the branches
One night, and in the morning disappeared.

But no words escaped its lips.
Having vowed to keep the earth’s secrets,
The witness tree stood silent.

The men sighed and began cutting.
They took turns, stopping often as if to give
The witness tree a chance to talk, though
It was becoming increasingly unreliable.
After it fell they bucked its body up into chunks
And fed its fingers and hands into the chipper
And tore its roots out by the hair
And ground its stump into dust.

Where the witness tree once stood
A witness house now stands.
It sees plenty
But no one thinks to question it.
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Looking for Morels


But were we, really? My brothers and I
Certainly thought so when
We set out early the morning after
The first warm rain, each with
A plastic Jewel Osco bag
Rocking delicately on one wrist,
A receipt still in mine, dry as a leaf,
Though this is the wrong metaphor
For the leaves of that morning,
For the leaves of that morning were
Still handing down to one another
Heirlooms from the downpour.

Within a minute of entering
Those woods we were
As drenched as if it were raining
Still, though the sun was up
And out. What else aside
From the anti-weight of those
Plastic bags were we carrying?
Ideas of where morels were most
Likely to be found, ideas
That were in conflict with one
Another thanks to the differing
Opinions of those we’d spoken to.

Some had told us we would
Find them under the dead
Elms, which meant looking
Not only for mushrooms but
For a particular tree too,
Then discerning which were dead
And which were merely dying.
From others we’d heard
They could best be found in April
On open slopes that faced
The sun, and that only in May
Would we find them in the woods.

Now I wonder if it mattered to us
Whether we found any at all.
By the time we did it tended
To be too far gone to eat.
Still we ate it, if only to prove
We could. Our father with his palate
Of meat-and-potatoes wouldn't have
Touched one with a pitchfork.
And even our mother with
Her Russian mushrooming blood
Distrusted them, afraid that
They might be poisonous.

It must have been something else
We were looking for. The shell
Casings the fall hunters had littered
The forest floor with and which were
The closest we came to carrying guns,
Or the bloodroot stems we broke,
Staining our wrists red? Or maybe
We were looking for what we were
Wasting: hours scouring the floor
Of our grandfather’s woods,
Our plastic Jewel Osco bags
So light but full of light.
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The Mask Photographs of Ralph Eugene Meatyard


recall those Halloween masks
bought last minute at Walgreen’s.
Trying them on for each other,
we shrieked in the aisle. It was
the first time I had to choose
what to become. I can still feel
the coldness where my breath
condensed against the rubber,
proof that within the ugliness
of the mask I was still a child,
my face unmarred. I talked
just to hear my own voice made
weird in the antechamber,
like the thoughts of someone
fallen into a coma. When the door
opened, I looked up at strangers
through those slits that never
corresponded with where
my eyes were. It was then
I learned the power of being
unknown. On the drive back
out to the dark country where
we lived, I took the mask off
to eat candy, letting each fist
wear it so it could feel how it felt.
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Photograph: Farm Sale, William Hunt Farm, Ridott Township, 1912


“Note the heavy fur coats,” says the caption.
I note them. I note also the shadows the cattle
throw, the only thing about them that cannot be
sold. I note how their shadows are no darker
for being doubled by the shadows thrown
by the men bidding on them and the men merely
looking on. I note how the men that seem to be
doing the bidding are the ones wearing fur,
while noting also how not a single man is hatless.
I note the man standing on a box above the crowd.
I note the way he peers at the perfect ring the pair
of Holsteins is being backed into. I note how well-
fed he seems. I note the spokes of the wagon wheels,
how they are doubly still, frozen in the photograph
and in the moment the photograph captures.
I note the height from which this picture was taken.
I note that it must have been taken from the mow
by a young man who was asked from time to
time to kick down a bale of straw. I note how
he must have felt acutely his separateness
from the men below. I note the darkness
in the lower left corner, note my tendency
toward grandiloquence, note how
I first wrote: “Note how the darkness is
like the shadow of the coming war."
I note now that it was only his thumb.
Still is, in a way. Note how it is
still in the way.
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You love reading them, but not the beginnings.
The beginnings bore you. All those names,
The paternal and maternal grandparents,
The births of their fathers and mothers,
Their courtship and their professions,
All must be gotten through before finally
On, say, page 30, the poet is born.

Then you must make it through childhood,
A death or a teacher that might become
Significant later or might not, summers
Spent at a lake or on an uncle’s farm,
The first predictable dawning in them of a love
Of language, all this must be endured before
On, say, page 90, the first poem is written.

And it's bad, the poem. Now one must get through
The apprentice years, must read the letters
And journal entries in which the poet doubted
Their talent, must change majors with them,
Accompany them while they disappoint parents,
And all in vain. You alone seem to know that
They will go on to write great poems.

After all, this is why you’re reading their biography
In the first place. You flip ahead to catch a glimpse
Of the great stanzas adrift in all that prose
About their affairs and alcoholism and prizes
And late happiness. And then you return
To the place where you were to see if you can
Figure out how in hell they wrote them.
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The Infant Jesus


In those statues and paintings of Mary
Holding the Infant Jesus, I pity her.
For a baby he knew too much already.
Already haloed, already destined to preach
And die for our sins, he was no normal child.
She never read a book to him while he pointed
To the pictures, crinkling the pages.
She never held him under the olive trees,
Rocking him in her arms so light and shadow
Moved upon his face and made him giggle.
Bringing a tiny spoon of mashed fruit
To his mouth she found he was already fed.
If she brought him toys he must have ignored them,
Leaving her feeling foolish. She was like the mother
Of a baby who wails and wails while the other
Mothers sway and shush, though theirs are quiet.
As for her husband, when he came home at dusk
With splinters in his hands and sawdust in his hair,
He decided not to pick his son up out of his cradle,
Though he'd been looking forward to it all day.
And though they never said so to one another,
Some nights, lying in bed without touching,
Their strange child silent and wide
Awake in the corner, they were terribly afraid.
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Given that
I’m going to die one day
It follows that
This moment is precious

Given that
This moment is precious
It follows that
I ought not waste it

Given that
I ought not waste it
It follows that
I should hold onto it with all my might

Given that
I should hold onto it with all my might
It follows that
I will one day grow weary

Given that
I will one day grow weary
It follows that
I should rest now while it is quiet

Given that
I should rest now while it is quiet
It follows that
I should put down this pen

Given that
I should put down this pen
It follows that
This poem should end
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The Twain


The one who has walked for years
Alongside you may one day

Fall behind you. One moment
They are there and the next

They are nowhere
In sight. In vain you turn

To see where it is
They have gone, and it is then

You notice that
This road you have been on

For so long and always
Thought was straight

Bends, so that if you were to
Walk for a thousand years

You might come full circle
To the place you set out from

With the one who was always
Beside you until they weren't.

This happened long ago.
You are still standing on that road,

Waiting. You have been waiting
For so long you have forgotten

Which of the twain you are:
The one who kept walking or

The one who fell behind.
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