Fall 2015


1. Recklessly wasteful; 2. Lavishly generous. He’s embarrassed by the plums of this place, the way they fall in sticky lushness, their endless bearing judgment on his competence, his failure to find their use.


I’d like to apologize for the loose cows of my childhood, the ones who wandered the roads at two a. m., lowing as if to say, how did such a thing happen? How did we find ourselves in your garden, cropping the corn?


Growing up, we lived down in a holler, and sometimes, Coyote loped through our fields—nothing to eat but okra And tomatoes—before crossing dirt road to Baker’s farm. Sometimes, a scream unlimbing chicken.

The Poet at Fifty-Nine

—after Larry Levis Autumn is a glum raisin, plumped with sweet wine, stirred into a spiced batter. As the cake bakes, scents rising, I think of the woman who taught me to make it, of everything I learned from all the old women: How to seed zinnias and play canasta,…

Calling Out the Dead

I was a sound sleeper in my teens. My mother’s voice used to break through my dreams, waking me for school with news. Hey, that funny guy from Saturday Night Live died, what’s his name, Ackroyd? Or, They shot one of the Beatles. I’m trying to hear her tone again,…