I grew up in a house shaded by the factory's clank and clamor. When I come home, I crave--more than any home cooking--those thin slices in the fridge. Poem o / t Day: Bad Day by Kay Ryan Not every day is a good day for the elfin tailor.
I grew up in a house shaded by the factory's clank and clamor. When I come home, I crave--more than any home cooking--those thin slices in the fridge. Poem o / t Day: Bad Day by Kay Ryan Not every day is a good day for the elfin tailor.
I grew up in a house shaded by the factory's clank and clamor. When I come home, I crave--more than any home cooking--those thin slices in the fridge. Poem o / t Day: Bad Day by Kay Ryan Not every day is a good day for the elfin tailor.
my parents never heard ofgooey pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues. I have acquired a taste, yes, and that's okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house shaded by the factory's clank and clamor. A house built like a square of sixty-four American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches Withfor the hungry man who disappeared into that factory, and five hungry kids. American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious holes. We were sparrows and starlings still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs, our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax dig your nails in to separate them. When I come home, I cravemore than any home cookingthose thin slices in the fridge. I fold one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother can't understand. Doesn't remember me being a cheese eater, plain like that.
Poem o/t Day: Bad Day by Kay Ryan
Not every day is a good day for the elfin tailor. Some days the stolen cloth reveals what it was made for: a handsome weskit or the jerkin of an elfin sailor. Other days the tailor sees a jacket in his mind and sets about to find the fabric. But some days neither the idea nor the material presents itself; and these are the hard days for the tailor elf.
Poem o/t Day: Hand Shadows by Mary Cornish
My father put his hands in the white light of the lantern, and his palms became a horse that flicked its ears and bucked; an alligator feigning sleep along the canvas wall leapt up and snapped its jaws in silhouette, or else a swan would turn its perfect neck and drop a fingered beak toward that shadowed head to lightly preen my father's feathered hair. Outside our tent, skunks shuffled in the woods beneath a star that died a little every day, and from a nebula of light diffused inside Orion's sword, new stars were born. My father's hands became two birds, linked by a thumb, they flew one following the other.