Author: David Roderick
-
THE HOUR OF THE WOLF by David Roderick
Often one of my daughters howls me to her bed, and like a trained victim I tranceto their denned room to comfort a faceshaped by some dream or another—eyes pressed shut,lips in the nightlight the shade of a dried peach.Isn’t it absurd, an old prince like me, stirred by their delicate mouths? I nuzzle my head into…
-
DEAR SUBURB, by David Roderick
Some blunt hammering set me off, that and the teeth of a saw. I left behind my sweater, the remains of a sandwich, my camera, some paperweights, my lament. I left behind a few weak coals I’d blown alive.