Goose River Anthology, 2021
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The nineteenth annual Goose River Anthology, 2021 is a fine collection of the best poetry, fiction, and essays submitted to us from all parts of the United States. There are over 70 talented authors represented in this volume. Many are seasoned writers while some are being published for the first time. Don't miss your chance to experience this rare treasure. Sampling by Wendy Galgan, Boothbay, ME False Dawn Rice paper walls glow grey. I wake the children, bathe and dress them, give them calming herbs steeped in boiling water, sing to them until they drift to sleep in their chairs. His letter w...
The nineteenth annual Goose River Anthology, 2021 is a fine collection of the best poetry, fiction, and essays submitted to us from all parts of the United States. There are over 70 talented authors represented in this volume. Many are seasoned writers while some are being published for the first time. Don't miss your chance to experience this rare treasure. Sampling by Wendy Galgan, Boothbay, ME False Dawn Rice paper walls glow grey. I wake the children, bathe and dress them, give them calming herbs steeped in boiling water, sing to them until they drift to sleep in their chairs. His letter waits on my dressing table. Ebony on ivory tells me, "No married man may fly." Above it, he stares from a picture sent from the air base. Around his neck, black ink on white silk, he wears my name, the name that prevents his flying. I sit at the table, reach up to twist my hair, anchor it with combs - ivory woven into ebony - careful to keep my movements slow, graceful in this, as in all things. My hair in place, I don my wedding kimono, adjust the obi, slip on my sandals. The light is tinged with gold now, but dawn still has not come. No birds call. I wake the children, lead them, drowsy and sweet-smelling, one on each side, back to the river that sings. We step in. Silk rises to billow about our ankles, shins, waists. The boy goes easily, his hair slick beneath my palm. The girl balks, looks up, but bends to the hand at her nape. I stand, one hand on each head, count long minutes. I wait to see them float. At last I sit, ease back until the riverbed presses between my shoulders. The sun rises, a golden ball between two dark shapes that were my children. My eyes open, I see a silhouette against the sun. My husband, grim-faced with joyful eyes, at his plane's controls. I drown so he may fly.
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