Winter 1986 • Vol. VIII No. 1 Poetry |

Homage to Little Roy Lewis

Three days I lay with a fire under my skin, in the guest room,in the twin bed by the window. The preacher in waist-high water, his Bible, the walnut frame,the footboard, everythingshimmied in heat, the lights mostly down,the brightest thing in the roomthe banjo cracking in the speakers of the stereo. That last night I fell into a dream of a river, a cold windbrushing my arms straight outtoward the gray water, open and deep, too wide to see across.And anchored on that bank, a little white boatwormy with scars. Little Roy, can you imagine that long drift,the tenuous ark of the dreamlike a single note sailing farther and farther from the string? All I remember is waking under the full moon floatingin the window,the shell of your Mastertone swimming in a tablature of stars. Little Roy, to come back to anything as clear and brightas your banjo, to watch the starswink off every note, to roll toward the room and hear each riff sparkacross the distance,and to ease back, co

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Dress Blues

By David Bottoms

Three days I lay with a fire under my skin, in the guest room,in the twin bed by the window. The preacher in waist-high water, his Bible, the walnut frame,the […]

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