Winter 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 1 Poetry |

Pulse

Men in frayed wool jackets frighten me in July. Am I out of touch? It's 90 degrees today. 92. If I wore wool, I'd collapse, and they stroll by, fingering their mindless beards, too hot to look at. A man in Vermont stops breathing several times a night in his sleep. A woman sees the ghost of a young girl sipping spring water in Saratoga. A teenage boy from Queens is struck by a Thunderbird in Washington D.C. And today, two old dogs have died: one in Oregon belonging to lesbians, one near the Hudson to a shrink and his wife. I touch a white-haired man in Food Emporium. He looks like my grandfather in a former life, jet black and fat. Soon I'll visit a friend who holds her husband's bones in the palm of her hand, says: "This is the only man I'll ever love." I miss you, Lori, over seaweed and tuna on Broadway. None of this is my loss. I'm the child who hid beneath the bed in the pink-papered room while her brother got the belt down the hall, the one who hung back when her friends ju

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Men in frayed wool jackets frighten me in July. Am I out of touch? It's 90 degrees today. 92. If I wore wool, I'd collapse, and they stroll by, fingering […]

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