Seaside by Andrea Cohen

Seaside BY ANDREA COHEN Before the day at the beach, we scouted out the day at the beach, because nothing happens without planning, because we had to plant the sand and the idea of happiness. We had to haul in the water. All our pleasures were forays into wilds, were carry in and out—like our bodies, […]

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My Friends Don’t Get Buried in Cemeteries Anymore by Edward Hirsch

    My Friends Don’t Get Buried In Cemeteries Anymore By Edward Hirsch My friends don’t get buried in cemeteries anymore, their wives can’t stand the sadness of funerals, the spectacle of wreaths and prayers, tear-soaked speeches delivered from the altar, all those lies and encomiums, the suffocating smell of flowers filling everything. No more undertakers […]

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Self-portrait by Edward Hirsch

Self-portrait BY EDWARD HIRSCH I lived between my heart and my head, like a married couple who can’t get along. I lived between my left arm, which is swift and sinister, and my right, which is righteous. I lived between a laugh and a scowl, and voted against myself, a two-party system. My left leg dawdled […]

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Late March by Edward Hirsch

Late March BY EDWARD HIRSCH Saturday morning in late March. I was alone and took a long walk, though I also carried a book of the Alone, which companioned me. The day was clear, unnaturally clear, like a freshly wiped pane of glass, a window over the water, and blue, preternaturally blue, like the sky in […]

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Branch Library by Edward Hirsch

Branch Library  BY EDWARD HIRSCH I wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boy who perched in the branches of the old branch library. He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacks and the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor, pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratching notes under his own corner patch […]

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