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

57 That Was Then The Resurrectionist’s Wife Jennifer Perrine He always returns—some nights from the pub, his skin radiant with smoke and the sweat of other men, his breath hot as judgment against my ear— or else from the graves, trailing the fecund dirt behind him—and then, too, the smell of other bodies in our bed, the dull worm of it pressing up to me when he does. Can this be the way he touches them, one hand on the abdomen, groping in the dark for rotted spots? Does he trace all the points where the scalpel will dig in, the bone-strapped organs huddled in the chest? Do their faces bloom with blue flowers where the blood’s gathered, their cheeks dragging against his as he hauls them up—the loll of their head like an assent to desire newly awake, its wink of furtive light? ...

Share