Summer 1979 • Vol. I No. 3 Poetry |

Ever After

Do I repeat myself? Very well then I repeat myself. The beginning was all a puzzlement: the small mouth in the sand, its dark trickle, pain she wanted to run from and couldn't, then a fiery thistle of fingers pointed or waggled or beckoned or prodded or said, Pay attention! Her eyes, bright-new, were coin for that: she kept still and looked —however hard to know what was a sign or only a self idling beside the road and did it mean her, whoever she was. Still, she went on, getting the knack of it, and little by large everything opened up, the signs leading onward to other signs, the riddles rearing in her path like stiles, too high to jump but easy to slip under; and misplaced whatever had to be found again, and followed every misdirection until it came true, and ran needless errands so whatever else had to happen could, so the white horse who came to her in the wood would come to her saddled and carrying a king, and believed unbelievable witches and little wizards her body se

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Movietime

By Irving Feldman

Do I repeat myself? Very well then I repeat myself. The beginning was all a puzzlement: the small mouth in the sand, its dark trickle, pain she wanted to run […]

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