The Midnight Circus, стр. 50

and the light,

tasteit on the air.

Time compresses,

andthen like the road,

unwindsinto the rest of your life.

That is the only magic that counts.

Theonly magic.

Itis in your hand, your mouth,

your heart, your belly.

Itis on the road.

TheFisherman’s Wife

Ah—mermaids.Not always Ariel. This one grew dark and darker.

Ilike strong women. Come from a family of them. So this moral and mortalbattle between two strong women for the love of a drowning fisherman,was a no-brainer for me. Just a bit on the wet side. It became part ofmy collection Neptune Rising, 1982, a book of mermaid/mermanstories and poems. The poem was first published there as well.

Undine

Itis a sad tale,

the one they tell,

of Undine

thechangeling,

Undine

whotook on legs

to walk the land

and dance

onthose ungainly stalks

before a prince

ofthe earthfolk.

He betrayed her;

they always do

the landsmen.

Herarms around him

meant little more

thana finger of foam

curled around his ankle.

Herlips on his

he thought cold,

brief and cold

asthe touch of a wave.

He betrayed her,

theyalways do,

left her to find

herway back home

overthousands of land miles,

the only salt her tears,

andshe as helpless

as apiece of featherweed

tossed broken onto the shore.

Becomea Warrior

Sometimesa story starts in one direction and while the author stops thinkingabout it, it makes sharp turn. As this one did. On a quiet morning Iwas trying to write a story for a Warrior Princesses anthologya friend was putting together and published in 1982. The story—whichI’d envisioned as a positive, uplifting story—went darker, and thendarker still. Sometimes a story has its own mind and the author has torun after it shouting, “Wait for me ”

Asfor the poem, it is published here for the first time.

ThePrincess Turns

Lookingin the mirror,

the princess turns,

skirtsbivalving around her.

Shelooks little like a dragon,

though once her nails were hard,

brown,broken.

Herhair once crinkled,

cracked, split-ended,

dyedgreen.

Herbelly once bloated,

bones bleached, eyes runny,

teeth yellowed.

Amazingwhat a night

in a spa, good dentists,

detox, delousing can do.

Theprincess turns.

AnInfestation of Angels

Forsome odd reason, the first few paragraphs of this reboot of theBiblical Exodus came to me when I was on a ten-day author tour (plusdogsledding trip) in Fairbanks, Alaska, in March. It wasn’t that I wasdreaming of the sun of the Middle East as an antidote to snow andfrost. Rather the young woman who’d been appointed my spirit guideby the Arts Council that brought me there showed me an angel storyshe’d written (as I recall it was quite wonderful). It became a kind ofchallenge. Her angels were the golden kind. Mine are . . . NOT. Iborrowed a typewriter from my host’s home (quick—who knows what atypewriter is?) and got down the first paragraphs. Another possiblepoint of interest—I minored in Comparative Religions at SmithCollege, along with majoring in English Lit, so I knew the HebrewTestament quite well. The story was published in Asimov’s Magazine,1985.

Thispoem is first published in this book.

Work Days

Thereis work to do, angels,

roll up your gossamer sleeves.

Shutter yourwings.

Leavethe halo rusting

by the side of the road.

The world turns by labor,

notjust hymns.

Pickersin the field know this.

Workers in the factory know this.

Artists attheir easels know this.

Teachersin their classrooms know this.

Eventhe poet, in her moment

ofinspiration grasps this knowledge.

Whyis it so hard for others

to think this through?

Newsyou do not like is still news.

So, do your work.

Names

Inorder to fill out a book of my fantasy short stories to be published byPeter Bedrick Books (a publisher known for its Jewish books, thoughthis was not a collection of Jewish stories), I wrote this shortHolocaust survivor tale. It has been reprinted a number of times andalso may have been my first-ever story in Year’s Best Horror Fiction.You never know how far a story will go to find its audience.

Thepoem was first published in my second political collection of poems, Before/TheVote/After in 2017. So now you know which way I lean. Left.

Whatthe Oven Is Not

The oven is no sanctuary;

Thefood knows it, the Jew knows it.

Oil poured on, water bubbles out,

Wecrisp as easily as chicken,

though not as kosher.

Cancers,like stuffing, fill the gaps.

I’dnot know, nor do I care

what you think of the Shoah.

I have spent halfa lifetime

writingabout it, intruding into the pain

my family—ever early adopters—

escaped via immigration and long luck.

There is a sickness here,

butit bears no name.

Theoven knows it, and does not say.