Winter 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1996 |

London

I can't tell you how flat I find this place. I don't get it. We went to Dickens's house, but all it had to say to me was what a bastard Dickens was to women. Why not just visit Chappaquiddick—        if that's the way you're going to be? Patsy gets it, though. When we walked over Waterloo Bridge she was air-intoxicated and         untethered from time. "Thamesis!" she cried. "Linda, the Romans were here!" I saw that damn map in my Complete Shakespeare; blinked; saw some desultory river traffic; concrete banks; water forced and gleamless. A cabbie explained the charmlessness of things: London was ruined, ruined by the building in the '60s. Also the traffic department was corrupt, and he was going mad. I thought, Maybe in a different language this would seem different. I'd like some sense of secrets here, but this is just like home.         Patsy made our secrets up when we were kids. She showed me how to crack the door at times our doll

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Vacation

By Linda Bamber

I can't tell you how flat I find this place. I don't get it. We went to Dickens's house, but all it had to say to me was what a […]

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