“Go shut the door,” he told me, and I stopped a second, wondering exactly what he meant, if I’d been wrong to leave it propped open, if drafts were getting in, if “shut” meant something different, if he had asked before, if “door” could be a metaphor for our relationship, if we were past the point when shutting doors would help, if “door” derived from Anglo-Saxon or from French, if I was overthinking this, if he could shut the door himself, if I could wrench it off its hinges if…
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when my mother died so did our language the one we spoke each day at the kitchen table each night by the hum of the television on the telephone between visits the language that dropped from the open window above her garden while she pruned and tied and watered an old language perfect for prayers she whispered songs she sang it lived between us like the child we both loved now i must slide my fingers over this miracle of technology to hear her voice this new world has no…
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Jennifer Robson is the author of six novels set during and after the two world wars. Her latest novel is…
Intellectuals, too, take vacations, and they generally don’t look askance to venues off the beaten track. This is what Margherita…
For over 35 years Gianna Patriarca has been writing sensitive ethno-centric poetry about her colourful community of Little Italy in…
SAPLING Sunday mornings, Mom attends mass at St. Ambrose Church while Dad takes me to High Park where I play…
“Since the house is on fire, let us warm ourselves.” (Italian proverb) Monday, 9 a.m. Not writing. Dim, dreary…
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