Autumn and my tin can was enough, stray
pebbles from the drive rattling as I rolled
it all ridges and grooves between my knees in
the dog-eared porch-light, the metal growing
cold because we all were. The dragonflies and
Queen Anne’s lace, all the odd creatures with
misleading names were dropping dead so we
could rise up shivering, feel our own blood. I
wanted to call them on the other side, could just
see an insect Gargantua with his ear pressed to
the can, extolling the million virtues of an after-
life in which everything had shrunken. Good for
him, I thought; he deserves this. The sky would
eviscerate the sun, every night a little sooner.
About the author
Suzanne Marie Hopcroft wants very badly to get back to Paris someday soon. She is a PhD student in Comparative Literature at Yale University… Read the full bio
Issue 13 · September 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
By Rimas Uzgiris
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen from the wires.
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
By Pui Ying Wong
Here’s the river I stepped in more than twice.// I can’t see them but I know the boats/
are going by in the sturdy fog...
By R L Swihart
And now you explore the hidden pockets and come up/
with a City Guide (in English) you picked up in Amsterdam./
Why did I keep that? Where were we going? But she’s/
not there to answer
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose