Summer 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 3 Poetry |

Interim

The glass fogged over from outside—the view how many stories down to the courtyard where the purple flags of irises burn through the rain. There are bedrolls neatly stashed beneath chairs, black cylindrical ashtrays, pots of ficus, Styrofoam coffee cups; there are pay phones on one wall. Some people from cities, some people from farms— but with close resemblances. The double doors into the ward itself admit the loved ones only. Here is the mortal hush, unconsciousness, and the hiss of respirators. Here is the body patiently at sea in its devotion to a mind somewhere, one feels, somewhere, one feels, but where? Here is the day which is not day, the hours of a night which is not night. Here is the choice which is no choice, and here is the look in my sister's eye. Here is the lion of his will not letting go until, at last, by increments, it does. And here is the interim—as one by one, my brothers and sister slip away to make their calls . . . Witho

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Out Back

By Michael White

The glass fogged over from outside—the view how many stories down to the courtyard where the purple flags of irises burn through the rain. There are bedrolls neatly stashed beneath […]

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