REWIND vol7 n1 2010
Joseph Ramelo In those early days, Hunter Point was a bantam uncial: shorter, rounder, and everyone called him ‘p’. Only his mother called him Peepee, but for him that was not a nickname, just an embarrassing secret. Anxious were the rare moments when the other kids visited him, but though his mother would call him by his given name, he was always on his toes — she might slip up, and his whole life...
Elizabeth Lopeman Quinn arrived the night before last when I was making Mark’s dinner. I heard the door crack open and then he was there in the light from the hallway with that black leather duffel his dad had given him before he went off to Hartwick College. His eyes asked if he could come in and then he smiled in a way that convinced me he could heal the sick and feed...
Ian Rhodewalt The desert becomes a soup of glass: I cannot return to the woman who holds the rain and the sun. This final altar still holds me, the bloodied ram rises from his freeze of death, his newborn bellow spits out the metal of my father’s knife. The bloody but unbloodying ram picks up his life and backs into the dogwood leaves. Eels of sweat climb up...
Bernadette Esposito You see them on the streets: driving cars, riding bicycles, walking, running, even pushing strollers. You see them at rest stops, at gas stations, at Laundromats and Supermarkets. You see them in front of you: in lines, on billboards, in movies, at post-offices. Whether they hanker for juice or juleps, Keirkegaard or comic books, these men implicate themselves. In high school we called them In-a-minute men, an innocuous fleet of testosterone whose...