Summer/Fall 1997 • Vol. XIX No. 3/4 Poetry |

The Inexplicable Abandonment of Habit in Eclipse

I was not conscience-calmed then. Almost always I played a silent war game to myself. What stays is the shape of my father's body as he leaned in the light-ruled doorway watching night birds sweep and then pass upwards into the afternoon sky suddenly dark, and I saw what I was not supposed to see. Before my father wrapped us tightly inside his army blanket mist, like skin unraveling, rose off our shoulders inside a soaking rain that would never let us go.

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My Waiting Brain

By Bruce Weigl

I was not conscience-calmed then. Almost always I played a silent war game to myself. What stays is the shape of my father's body as he leaned in the light-ruled […]

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