Poetry
Autumn/ November 1968
The Tailor’s Ring
I have a friend whose father, a German Tailor in the bowels of the Balkans, Was tiny as the tailor in the legend, The one who wore a sash embroidered […]
Poetry
Autumn/ November 1968
My Room
In nineteen hundred, when terminal Cancer was thought to be contagious, My great-grandmother brought one of her daughters To a dark Chicago rented room to “rest.” The last week the […]