Susan Stewart

The mother is rolling cigars in the factory. She is best of all at it, even beautiful, her white hands amid the woody threads, the acrid raw silk of the wrapping; she is best of all, can do it without thinking or asking a question, could do it while [...]

Top Right Drawer  Aspirin and pumice stone; emery board and peach stone; hourglass, lost its sand; postcard from Watkins Glen; piece of quartz; sequined belt; red barrette; vermilion disc; a diary, January 8: saw R skating, in the dark, a branch in [...]