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- 4From:The Literary Review (Vol. 38, Issue 2) Peer-ReviewedThey were just slobs. They were like garbage, those Emerys who rented Cabin #9. Each summer my grandmother squared my shivering shoulders and ordered me in to clean, mesmerized - who wouldn't be? - by their white-trash...
- 5From:The Literary Review (Vol. 41, Issue 3) Peer-ReviewedIt was confusing. The Christians worshipped a dead bleeding man slung from four nails. The Hindus revered stones, which, they claimed, possessed "the reverence of all life-energy." Nine, I wandered slam-bang...
- 6From:Hollins Critic (Vol. 32, Issue 1) Peer-ReviewedColleagues in the University of Nebraska-Lincoln English Department frequently describe my own poetry as "darker than dark." "Who are your influences?" they demand, striding away, visions of Sylvia Plath, Charles...
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- 8From:The Literary Review (Vol. 41, Issue 3) Peer-ReviewedAnd if the Romantics taught us to view death as morbid, what can we unlearn? In this cemetery, the usual plethora of tiny white crosses, stones crumbling back decades until the mind can't orbit centuries...
- 9From:Hollins Critic (Vol. 29, Issue 1) Peer-ReviewedI am a poet of excess. Definition, "poet of excess": writer who craves the piled-up instead of the pared-down. I recall sitting, as a child, in the darkened classroom as the projector whirred and I waited for the first...
- 10From:Hollins Critic (Vol. 30, Issue 2) Peer-ReviewedImagine this. You are a lectured-into-submission child, attending another dull Protestant church service with your parents. The ordinariness of your life has driven you into a repressed fury that makes your stomach knot...
- 11From:Hollins Critic (Vol. 33, Issue 5) Peer-ReviewedWhen I was a child and hours inched with gargantuan infinitude beyond me, past me, I can remember my near-sensual craving, the detail-mongering distilled into a ravenousness, the morning a crow flapped down into my...
- 12From:The Literary Review (Vol. 41, Issue 3) Peer-ReviewedShe phoned me and whispered, "My mother just died." I tried to feel something: Suffering? Empathy? Anguish? Remorse? My mother was lying on a bed, her head slightly elevated, thin body disappearing under...
- 13From:Hollins Critic (Vol. 30, Issue 2) Peer-ReviewedThe Living. By Annie Dillard. New York: HarperCollins. $22.50. (h.b.) Annie Dillard's first novel The Living is an important book, if not a wholly successful one. In it we see Dillard struggle to redefine the...
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- 15From:The Literary Review (Vol. 41, Issue 3) Peer-ReviewedAll truth is relative, my students claim. In class, restless, I pace, craving a smoke. My black-ashed lungs longing for suffocation, release, though it's my sister I dream about, teaching Ray Carver's...
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- 19From:The Literary Review (Vol. 41, Issue 3) Peer-ReviewedWhen she caressed that blue vase, I believed it was my skin. Shed stroked grotesquer things: toads, lizards, pungent with death. An anthropologist, no; biologist, no; breath succulent with gin. In the museum,...