Fall 1983 • Vol. V No. 4 Poetry |

Not Saying Much

My father is dead and there is nothing left now except ashes and a few photographs. The men are together in the old pictures. Two generations of them working and boxing and playing fiddles. They were interested mostly in how men were men. Muscle and size. Played their music for women and the women did not. The music of women was long ago. Being together made the men believe somehow. Something the United States of America could not give them. Not even the Mississippi. Not running away nor the Civil War nor farming the plains. Not exploring or the dream of gold. The music and standing that way together seems to have worked. They married women the way they made a living. And the women married them back, without saying much, not loving much, not singing ever. Those I knew in California lived and died in beauty and not enough money. But the beauty was like a face with the teeth touching under closed lips and the eyes still. The men did not talk to them much, and neither time nor that fin

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Surviving Love

By Linda Gregg

My father is dead and there is nothing left now except ashes and a few photographs. The men are together in the old pictures. Two generations of them working and […]

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