Rebecca Gayle Howell Q&A on how she came to poetry
Rebecca Gayle Howell talks about how she came to poetry.
Rebecca Gayle Howell talks about how she came to poetry.
Rebecca Gayle Howell talks about the difficulty she finds in writing poems.
The drops sound like rocks thrown in a steel tub; the window glass taps, Not today. Not today. Dust to mud, the crew and I lay sod and expect New England. I should listen. My grace is sufficient, Brother Slade reminds us. He and I take off our shoes and stand stooped, washing. He is […]
Slade was pulling minnows out of the dry river the day we met. Puddles, more or less, was all that was left. But what could live wanted to and tried, treading narrow circles, a glide of brittle fins. He wore those rubber boots, though the sun was an anvil, and very little wet; he smiled, […]
All we grow here is cotton stalks. Thirsty weed that sells. When summer leaves, look out: the high ground will be fogged by bolls the size of testicles, every inch; a reap of what we have for what we want; of what we want. Thirsty, but it sells. The enginepickers would lift three, four rows, […]
We treat them like it’s catching, like those people chose a joke birthright. Some have no eyes, the sockets patched with paper flesh; others, gifted— three arms, four, an ear. The Kid is one. His just-born heart thrummed outside his body, no breastbone, his mouth red-wide for the surging scream, but silence is what was […]
I get sick when I see one of their stubarms waving. I don’t want to touch them, and anyway Slade hurries us when we’re told to go log stock—who could report what those people need. The planes sprayed for weevils, that’s what was said, then fire ants, that’s what was said, but it was a […]
Because he’s spurred you grab him by his neck and his legs Hold him in both your hands Look him in the eye Let him ask if you are to kill him today then tell him yes say yes with your own eye just before you take him to the clothes […]