Online Exclusives

12.04.00
From Others’ Work
You arrive in a small seaside town where the installations of a little-known artist are currently on view. As you step out a train pipes somewhere up the coast, out of sight. [...]
11.16.00
What Is Missing
Take, for example, the phone call. Her father had used pasted-together phrases like “alleged suspicions,” “supposedly missing team member,” and “questioning process,” but then put more emphasis on such remarks as “your help and support,” and “ridiculous, out to get the coach,” and “so you know what’s happening.” [...]
08.09.00
The Temple Birds Love Incense
Angel Trumpets grow on the north end of the compound … on the far end near the entrance. They blossom in early spring and last until September. [...]
07.30.00
From Fin
… The subject is quieted when the object ceases.
         In the first act, she will be dressed in faded gardening clothes, a
         scarf around her head. She will be a comfortable and lively woman. [...]
06.30.00
Your Lips Testify against You
I withdrew yet farther into my shell, snug as a meadow louse in a weedy mausoleum. I survived on porridge and my own brand of boosterism, which had me pacing the room and inciting imaginary riots in support of my seclusion:  [...]
06.20.00
Light Carried on Air Moves Less
In a lavender twilight, on the west side of an abandoned pasture gone to hay in the greenest part of our state, a mendicant, a scarved pale beauty with silver bell earrings, curled to sleep on kinked metal filings on the floor of a windowless farm shed gone to rot. [...]
06.11.00
Four Prose Poems
The memory theater burned, and in its ruins I could remember only portions of scripture, commentary, history, poetry, biographies of notable men, successful recipes, homeopathy, botany, and the classification of animals. [...]
06.09.00
Once Confined
Strata of chanting vertebrae           west of the Côte d’Ivoire,

late beside the Niger,        land of cliffs and chockstones 

you have blown through. [...]
05.08.00
Bump and Grind
This is how we begin: a little paint here; a little dab there. Pointilism is the favored method. [...]
04.19.00
Portraits and Repetition
(picture) of cloud body above line of ridge, position itself
being an event on a surface which can’t otherwise be seen [...]
03.28.00
Five Poems
A depiction complains of whose casual hand that made it?
Every figure in the picture is dressed in paper, fading. [...]
03.05.00
Three Exhibits
by Weldon Kees
edited by James Reidel
The houses were identical all up and down the block. One-story bungalows, oatmeal-colored stucco, with red-shingled roofs and copies of the evening paper folded in triangles on the porches. [...]
02.15.00
Outside: Postcards from Abroad
Here I am in Geneva. The Swiss have the second-largest standing army in the world. They can mobilize their entire force in less than thirty minutes. [...]
02.09.00
The Liquidators
Everything flows, the Greek said from the river bank. Barging down the interstate, we tell you everything fails. [...]
01.19.00
Musée Mécanique
Herman Godfrey lay, not yet breathing, in an empty sitting room, said Godmother Drosselmeier. Empty, that is, except for a grandfather clock and a tall cabinet with a bust of Nefertiti on top of it. [...]

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Vol. 82
Works & Days
Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

May 15, 2024
The boy watches me tend the fry pan. First of November in a warm year. I was an old man this morning. Now it is night and I am still an old man. The good stink of hot fried whitefish rises in the kitchen and oak leaves have fallen, painted the hill red. I am an old man because my body does not move fast. I am an old man because I have seen change that is large enough to fit inside my body. The change I have seen is like a bent stick I have swallowed. It sits inside my chest. It might make a hole in something soon.
May 8, 2024
Why my mother don’t like me?
     I ask Ansin, my grandmother. I say, How it is my mother never did like me?
     She steups. Kiss she teeth. And smooth-out that news she was reading in. Raise it up again to give it a little flip. At the top. And you could feel the vexness in that flip too.
     I say, Is cause I ent got no father?
May 1, 2024
“You have fifteen minutes,” the cashier says. Repeats it, runs your card, matter-of-factly smiling like Iowa girls do. Brenda smiled that smile too—pleasant, courteous. No faking, no strain.
     “Any questions?” she asks.
     You poke a carousel rack of baseball caps in front of her register. It creaks a clockwise inch. Stiff-billed, nylon, mesh. Lots of American flags. This one with the cabin patch, stitched with “Home Sweet Home.” It’s a deep bluish plum, a color Brenda likes.