Only your great grandmother came straight from the kitchen to the table, still stinking of brine and iron. Resplendent in her Shabbos skirt, matte ocher blood becomes evening gloves.
“The third indicator of spring is the arrival of prospective businessmen. They enter the woods and go from tree to tree, soliciting ‘lucrative opportunities’ to the area. One of them had long legs and a short torso. His skin was smooth and reflective.”
It has now been two weeks since the death of Ursula K. Le Guin, and Portland Review is coming to terms with the loss of one of the most beloved and impactful members of our community. Thank you, Ursula K. Le Guin, for teaching us, inspiring us, and sharing with us your stories.
“He flourished the tickets last Saturday…You were stepping out of your slip-ons. The daycare was a mess; the babies had passed around a cold and their whines stuck in your head, like the shadows bodies leave on walls after explosions.”
“Kelp-choked cove cants to and fro; / a diseased eye vainly chasing light. I undress; / pluck the / dive mask from the weeping man’s hands; / step off the breakwater and crash through the surface…”