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| ON SEPTEMBER 12, I CAN'T STOP | ||
| looking at one businessman falling headfirst from the tower. His arms and legs do not paw the air. He is not a kite with his tie as a tail. He is more missile than man, his head the dome and trigger, his body a titanium shell, just as vivid, just as dumb. Now I know the clammy hold of images, why the eye flickered and bulged in the broken window of the college locker room years ago where I showered in a different man’s gaze. And it is the calm of this man urging me stare over and over, the magnified shot of his face, his eyes watching the unrepentant street, the approach of a terrible body, its greeting a shattering. I can’t leave him. In his descent I finger a slick, clean fear and a grace so fierce it whistles like a bomb. |
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| CONTRIBUTOR | ||
| My mornings are full of golden retrievers and writing, and my days are full of classes and compositions. My chapbook, Where She Goes, chronicles mornings rowing on the river through Portland, Oregon where I’ve lived for 20 years. My poems and stories have appeared in literary magazines such as Seattle Review, Mid-American Review, Calyx, and more. I edit Clackamas Literary Review. |
