Jean Keskulla

See, it’s not sweet youththat touts a wildness, but crazyold age. Beauty shifts. Plumppink petals fall away, or stay,curling every which way,like stiff, unruly hair, dried...

I heard the Irishman on the radio say,only it didn’t sound the way we’d say it:commonplace, like dirt under the nails.He held it on his tongue, “Air-th,”...

When I’m reading a joke out loudfrom a new joke book, I hearmy voice start to falter, from laughter,almost to weep, from laughter,the way my sister’s voice did as a child...

When it touches you, you will keep still,in spite of black flies hovering—fiercely itching, lumpish red spots to come—feeling the day lighten, half-laughing...