Green, of May, all poised, unready. Bristly, in a pale shade. I pass a slow hand over these heads of children not mine.
Mothers don’t eat. It had come to my attention that mothers were fueled by something other than food: possibly telephone talk and worry. I wondered how old you had to be to turn into a mother and not have to eat anymore.
by Marsha Pomerantz About the Author: Marsha Pomerantz is the author of The Illustrated Edge (Biblioasis, 2011).
Allegro ma non tanto. Alleg-
retto. Allegro assai. Allegro appassionato. Andante
cantabile. Andante con moto. Sehr langsame Viertel.
Allegro amabile. Allegro
Turner I Painting Parliament burning, Turner reverses the drift of the wind so the river can echo yellow with red reverberations as crowds on boats observe the melding of towers and time, and all parties puddle in conflations of paint. Bad buildings deserve, some hold, to ashen in their heap. Now as cinders descend, leaders…