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Table of Contents for Issue 22/23

This work first appeared in Gargoyle, issue #22/23. Please respect the fact that this material is copyrighted. It is made available here without charge for personal use only. It may not be stored, displayed, published, reproduced, or used for any other purpose without the express consent of the author or artist.

Barbara's Story

Lee Upton

The glass bead strands dripped
over the hat brim like noodles.
The woman said she would like to take
me home: I looked like the child on her calendar
with the duck. When she turned away I crushed
several hair nets, committed little murders
with stick pins. I was happy,
happy as the little ruby
hat and glove set. Happy in the mirror.
I punched crisp dresses
in the racks, jammed my head in and out.
The woman said to my mother:
He shouldn't have left you.

After the hats, after groceries
my mother and I sat in the pickup.
Nobody's birthday but we had our party.
It snowed. We said white holes, white saints,
white birds. My mother said stray nurses.
Stray nurses! What a couple of gals!
All white snow on the windshield,
snow on the road all the way home
where we took our hats out
once a week and then put them back
like birds in a white cage
like cakes in cake boxes
like nobody's business.

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