Search Results for snow

...Michael Levan © 2016 Michael Levan 2016 Michael Levan Wanting Snow in August There are days in August when I want to be smothered by a foot of fresh snow, which makes sense if you’re midwestern or if you can only fall asleep to the radio hissing some ball game...

...Celia Laskey © 2017 Celia Laskey 2017 Celia Laskey Snow Angel I go into the Pancake House to hang more signs. The smell of sausage and syrup and damp down jackets infuses the air. The cashier says I can tape it to the front door. One outside, one inside? I ask. Sure, he says. As I...

... by narrative literature. Focusing on Orhan Pamuk's novel Snow , I analyze the ways in which worldly faith and parochial secularity unravel the religious/cosmopolitan agon. As Pamuk's novel underscores, because the most prominent boundaries of the modern world system are not territorial or political...

... seen it. But I know it is there, slipping through the deep beneath the ice. When I look at the translucent blue beneath my paws, I worry that I might have seen a shadow moving with us. When snow swirls around us and the air becomes hazy, the refracted light multiplies the whale into a hundred...

...Lara Ehrlich Lara Ehrlich Ruler of the Inverted Year You come alone, your footsteps smoking. The first in generations to walk the Road of Bones. There are no signs, and snow chokes the channel between the trees. Those who tried before you walked until they could walk no more...

... hands in the air and the room explodes in one voice that is high pitched and booming at the same time. The girls are singing their school’s hymn. It’s an upbeat, fast song that talks about hard working students who walk to school through sun, rain, and snow with their heavy schoolbags...

...: something waiting to fill our heads with ash, to make us reconsider what heat is. We used to dig in the yard: at first with our hands and then with small spades and shovels. We would cut through the frozen ground, dirt under our fingernails, our pants damp from the melted snow. We would dig until we...

...Peter LaBerge Peter LaBerge Homosexuality Dear second tongue.    Dear ice-slicked snake caught in the throat. Dear most slender ghost in the whole mouth. Dear tongue of glass    underneath a pane of untouched snow, tongue of always...

... her weekends now, their elbows sooty with the cheap print of obscure texts. She remembers waiting for him in bed the days he d hike to campus, streets snow-packed and silent. She is not lonely without him, naked and unafraid as the snow keeps coming down. Like a cat, she stretches into the warm print...

... had no contact with the outside world until 1978. Last night I dreamed that fire flew down from the east and when I woke the sun was lighting the snow aflame. After living alone for so long, the sky became another prophet, the snow another burning bush. Soon...

... to consider whether this will harm her. You are even less disposed to consider condoms. Perhaps you will bathe in the snow afterward while the exhausted parents in the neighborhood fail to try to arrest you to end your joy. It is suddenly obvious that harm must be done...

.... Revealing the white under-throat men never see, she balanced artfully on hind legs to pluck the wine-dark fruit hanging in the sumac. Her weight tugged off a fist of berries. Each bone-colored limb quiv- ered in the air. Snow sifted down, snow that would be gone by noon. Sull Mercer eased...

... 10.1215/00265667-3457687  © 2016 Chelsea Lemon Fetzer 42   43 sings the new favorite. Listen to the words, a man falling backward in snow. She sings her father’s name Michael. Heart attack on Valentine’s is a hard act to follow though her husband’s...

... fell, suggestive of the shifting role of the university. Showalter’s precursors lead her directly to the fifties and the accepted birth of the academic novel with C.P. Snow’s The Masters, Randall Jarrell’s Pictures from an Institution, and Mary McCarthy’s Groves...

... Loskutoff 9 10 the minnesota review I had planned to save the apples and enjoy them as a treat on cold winter nights (nights when my cabin is a lump in the snow), but I was not angry at the bear. I was happy to watch her. I wondered...

... and crush them into nothing. III.  Footprints Luna, Illinois Simon Cabot stood in a gap in a hemlock hedge, hands plunged deep into his coat pockets, elbows lodged in the dark branches on either side of him. The snow appeared to have stopped coming down, but a ridge had built up in the wedge...

... why he kept doing it. Why he lied about it, making up stories of a man, then a woman, then a devil he'd seen running through his father's land. All the while he snuck out in the night, when the ice on the ground wouldn't leave footprints as the snow would have, opening the door to the ewe-house just...

..., and considered microwaving a burrito. He opened his curtains and saw it was snowing. He looked down at the aloe plants. Their leaves curled inward. A squirrel clambered up the wall, and he smacked at it. During such times, it was his habit to smoke several more joints and order a day s worth of food from...

..., and love, without a care in the world. The collection s opening poem, summer, somewhere (Smith 2017: 3), is paradigmatic; it draws out the book s title into the foundational premise of a singular lyricism: here, there s no language for officer or law, no color to call white. if snow fell, it d fall black...

... my fingers blue, even as I held them to the fire. My toes blued next. Then my nose. I dropped my slacks to face the horror of my blue member. The bear-hide rug blued below my feet, the pine-log walls, the oak floor, the fireplace brick from red clay to blue blue blue. Outside, the snow unceasingly...