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An orange can’t be too round. / At night milk is black. / The first wife remembers everything. / The tall perspire first.
By SparrowSeptember 1986so i have been working these past two weeks, mulling and toiling and essaying and travailing, over what is now a large sheaf of rough draft garbage, complete and total crap. love’s labour lost.
By Pat Ellis TaylorOctober 1985November 17. Monday. The car didn’t start — again. We rode the bus. Manuel, in hat, was driving. He picked us up, leaving the students who were waiting to wait seven more minutes. I bet they hated me.
By Judy HoganJuly 1985Learning the proper name for magic; laughing at each other’s faults; finding meaning daily, providing reasons for waking every dawn
By Our ReadersDecember 1984A miracle, a third person in the relationship: Jesus, a fourth divorce
By Our ReadersApril 1983In 1975 I came to love Faye Henry. She was thirty-five years older than I and necessary for my mother, who had no friends at Harvard until she and Faye Henry fell asleep together in the back of “Practicum in Ethnographic Futures Research,” knew they were destined to be friends, and have been ever since.
By Brad ConardJuly 1982Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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