Spring 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1997 |

On Methodist Hill

for Joy Mallard 1 Shab of a plundered tomb, crust and leaf-stain, litter of wet newspaper, sandwich wrapper, pizza box, stench of sardine and wine— in the wind it hisses slightly, or sighs like a choir before the first note sung, then nothing much as I walk my daughter up the marble steps. Shadows jump-start the spirit—already an echo this lingering absence can't quite snuff. We pause on the great portico before the blinded windows and the chained-up door. Echo of what? Those feet that grooved these steps— how to raise them like numbers off old calendars, how to follow down the cracked sidewalks of Church Street and Main, Jarvis, Juniper, into those bright houses renovated for offices, or others boarded and gray, slumping into weedy yards, when my daughter keeps pulling me toward the graves? 2 Where are the images that edified? The olive trees blue in the torches of the crowd, the tumble of clouds hovering, the disciple raising his bla

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Dress Blues

By David Bottoms

for Joy Mallard 1 Shab of a plundered tomb, crust and leaf-stain, litter of wet newspaper, sandwich wrapper, pizza box, stench of sardine and wine— in the wind it hisses […]

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