All stories, as they reach their end, are sad.
The rain comes; the night falls; Malone dies alone.
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length…
And my mother, who at her death
Called out to her sister Ozra,
Has not yet let go of
My own sister’s hand.
We speak in circles,
Sock-monkeys one and all,
able to say what we are told.
You see them there
their arms weary with
holding the guns
withholding their fire
You see them in the light
Most literary presses fade away when the founder leaves, so I cannot tell you how much it thrills me that AHP continues into the second generation.
Lola the Lion Tamer and the Great Valdini
in Nikes and jeans
sharing a tired cigarette
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind…