英美浪漫主义诗歌概论与欣赏 laura kasischkei passed this place once long agowhen a man lived here with his fourdaughters, peacefully, it seemed. thosedaughters took turns washingdishes, doing laundry. frothy pearls andfeathers in a sink. softsocks, warm towels, folded, clean, inclosets, drawers, and baskets, andon shelves. to methis was astonishing. the laundrydone by daughters! nomother in the house at all. a weepingwillow grew in their back-yard, but it was not a symbol then.it could not have beenbecause this was the only treei knew the name of yet -- unless it was a treethat bore familiar fruit. likean apple tree, a mulberry. thiswillow's branches did not seem to bebranches at all to me, butribbons dangling loosely, tanglinggirlishly. if there was any weeping, it was inaudible to me. (wasi supposed to see it?) oneof the daughters was onlya year ahead of me, and sheinvited me (once) inside becauseshe wanted to play house with me. when i confessed i wasn't sure what playing house might mean, this girlsaid she would teach me.she was mother for this reason.i was the family dog. shetold me to eat froot loopsfrom a bowl on the kitchen floorwhile on my hands and knees. welaughed when i couldn't do it. but when i was mother, shecouldn't do it either.that there was laughter!a blue tablecloth.salt and pepper shakers shapedlike hands, which, puttogether, appeared to pray. wheni was thirsty, another daughter poured a cup of water for me, pouringwater with such confidence itseemed to me that shemight have poured the first waterfrom the first tap. when, outof curiosity, i wentinto their bathroom and pretended to peei witnessed toilet paper printed withforget-me-nots, along with a little dishthat held a piece of pink soap in it.and, when, after this, i couldn't sleepfor three nights in a row, mymother finally gave uptrying to comfort me.adrian matejkaafter jean-michel basquiatwe are all famous sunday mornings at the y.that magnificent & rattled-rim space of big·timingsundays. gym bag hung over the shoulderof a matching sweatshirt sundays. touch one toethen the other if you can kind of days. ball shoescrisp in the bag & what up, team? we say.for real, on sundays, we're sweating in quintuplicate like a grinning team portrait. knees swollen as roundly as the composite basketball we play with. & sometimes, the shoe-string glance from the trainer up front, thestraight up & down of would-be ballers orbiting the ball court like paparazzi & handshake laughs at bad passeshave to be adequate when your jumper is so far offsomebody should staple flyers to telephone poles for it. heidilynn nilssonwe are not surprised,those of us who are made,we've been told,in god's image,that our god, who hasneither tissue nor tail,is a jealous god.what makes ussnappish, after all, about godis impeccability butif jealousy makes usalso godlike, and if that'swhere our love turned wrong,then light with light, loss with loss,on the strict and ruined earth,someone gets the very thinghe longs for -- and whowill let him? lord i'mdesolate enough --i see the firestarving on a switchafter all of those years making for himmyself into a forest.。
