Spring 1990 • Vol. XII No. 2 April 1, 1990 |

Voices of Ice

Along the edge of the river, he squinted, but what he saw again was the face of his mother floating like a disc of ice. He waded in, kissing the cold wind, the song of the symphonies she used to play for him on the old Victrola, the scratchy music like the first note he screamed, waking from that dream of birth, of swimming upward through miles of murky water, listening and listening to the oval of her mouth, the song he first inhaled from her lips. NOTE: "The poems were written two lines at a time between me and Bill; I'd write two and he'd respond with two of his own, back and forth (through the mail) that way until the poem was finished. Then changes were recommended back and forth, after the poems seemed first draft' ready, though strangely they underwent much less revision than my own poems usually demand" (Jack Driscoll in a letter to Michael Pettit).

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