In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • Early Spring, and: Equinox
  • Cory Brown

Early Spring

It is early evening of a spring late, very late in coming—so late, in mid-April the deep crescents and parabolas of snow in the yard, resisting even an imperceptible slide down the subtle slopes on a chilly gray evening, seem something new grass may simply latch onto to grow on and carpet right over. And the child’s swing in the yard, and the clothesline too, are moving back and forth in a way which, to me, represents a motion seemingly knowing. Like someone slowly rocking—toes, heels, toes, heels—someone who’s been standing a long while, say, in a cold snow waiting for a bus, foothills of the Ozarks or Rockies in the distance, implacable and unforgiving as they block the early evening sun— and the grayness begins to bear down as she ponders the disease which has taken a mind she thought was well secured and robbed it of its house, its room of memory, his own street’s name, his spouse’s name— her name!—their children’s faces, indiscriminately the minutest details that surfaced their lives then slowly sank to what she thought was an inviolable core.

Equinox

It is dark outside, sixteenth of April and the stars are turning and turning, but the equinox is weeks to come it seems. Dolls around the house, mice and bears, a cow and little doll boys and girls, are seemingly mesmerized by the sound the dryer makes late at night, when animation’s at a standstill and cars and trucks on the nearby highway are hushed. Hush my sweets, your bangs are growing sweetly into your eyes, but we will trim them back. And your ankles sometimes ache in your growing pains, like my knees do when the world suggests that you will suffer one day before you die. And the word “die” sends the ache up my thighs and into my chest. There are small baskets of varying sizes around the house; one from Easter a few days ago casts its handle’s arched shadow onto the yellow wall. And the globe atop another table goes untouched, Australia catching day after day of sunshine and dust. It is too much, at times, to synthesize the desires, to subliminate the question, to wonder how long the child’s marble will remain misplaced beneath the wicker chair before a chance encounter brings to light its green translucence.

Cory Brown
Ithaca College
cbrown@ithaca.edu
...

Additional Information

ISSN
1053-1920
Launched on MUSE
1996-01-01
Open Access
No
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