Generations of Leaves | Taylor Graham All children are death, the leaves whisper. Spring leaves, almost too green. The child runs out before dawn while his parents lie in their sweet dough of sheets, their sugar and yeast. He runs out of the aftertaste of love to taste the entire garden. Apples and black-limned snakes. He wishes to name everything. But the sky eludes him, slips through any fingers, he can’t touch it with his tongue. In the upstairs bedroom his mother stirs, her child’s name a black seed on her lips. His father makes a fist in sleep, he dreams a leafless stick to be driven six feet into the ground. Already the child is whittling a father’s name on the crosspiece.  read about the author Contributors.htmlshapeimage_2_link_0
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The Figure of Authority | Thomas King What Mary Did | Sarah Layden Tithonus | C.E. Chaffin Homecoming | Patrick Reichard How You Remember Her | Amy Reed The Night of the Iguana | Derek Pollard Generations of Leaves | Taylor Graham Three Poems | Patrick Loafman On the Contrary Archives | Search   Authority.htmlMary.htmlTithonus.htmlHomecoming.htmlRemember.htmlIguana.htmlSummer-2007.htmlContrary.htmlArchives.htmlshapeimage_5_link_0shapeimage_5_link_1shapeimage_5_link_2shapeimage_5_link_3shapeimage_5_link_4shapeimage_5_link_5shapeimage_5_link_6shapeimage_5_link_7shapeimage_5_link_8shapeimage_5_link_9
commentary | poetry | fiction | chicago | summer 2007