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When I was born, Robert G. Mehlman was at the peak of his glory. He was more than a major talent. But within five years there wasn’t much of that glory left, and my mother sometimes compared him to a…
Fish bones walked the waves off Hatteras.
And there were other signs
That Death wooed us, by water, wooed us
By land: among the pines
An uncurled cottonmouth that rolled on moss
Reared in the…
It was a winter day. The streets of Vienna were dirty and shrouded with the mud of the snows that were falling, only to be melted immediately under the feet of the passersby. A dense and heavy smoke…
As a symbol of the past—all sadness and humility—my mother’s face swims up and rises before my eyes. Her eyes two black abysses, anguish peering from them; her lips moist and rosy, a smile always…