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Tag Archives: Bob Meszaros
June 1953, the second-floor classroom is motionless in the heat. Miss Johnson balances the long white wooden pole above us. The muscles of her short thick arms are knotted; moisture thickens on her upper lip. She hooks the pole end … Continue reading
April, and the mallards are back. First, the hens; then, the drakes: one by one they drop feet first into our sun-struck leafless pond. Days of flapping wings, of head pumping and endless preening, of grunts and low-toned whistles, of … Continue reading
You never liked them: beautiful but rootless. Spring was your season: you sat by the open window watching crocuses and tulips outside grabbing hold. In December you were admitted— a borrowed hothouse room, its windows sealed: cut flowers filled a … Continue reading
Sunset, a high tide full of sand on thighs, of salt on sun-browned skin. A day of baking in the sun; now every look and touch is fire. Forty miles of interstate to get home. You and I are last … Continue reading
I sit in a small abandoned office space in Brighton. Outside, the traffic on North Beacon pulses. Inside, the air conditioner deadens sound. High on the wall behind my son his most recent paintings hang: sunlight curls beneath a turnpike … Continue reading
First, by horse-drawn wagon; then truck— fourteen hundred deliveries a day in winter; four thousand in the summer when the sun’s heat waited for an open door. Wagons, trucks, horses and rubber-aproned men all packed in sawdust preservers lost to … Continue reading
The bride is in remission: she wears white the color of her skin. Her mother is matron of honor. Her sisters sing. She and her bridegroom sit in chairs before the altar, a dispensation granted by the priest. The church … Continue reading
It is wartime in Loews Poli. An artificial lovers’ sky, filled with harvest moons and jagged silver stars, arcs high above my head. On screen Kathryn Grayson stands alone beside an empty piano bench. She is looking for accompaniment. She … Continue reading
Nameless, fickle, for three days it toyed with us— silencing the birds, graying the skies, feinting at levees: all signs of weather—then it came, quickly, the tide rising, surging, spewing sea water and sewage into our cellars, uprooting oak trees, … Continue reading
White chalk letters on a coal-black board; the small glass inkwells set in place: Miss Johnson and the Palmer Method end each day. Red-faced and wide-eyed, she beats time with her fist: the push and pull of forearms circling, the … Continue reading