– For Andrew I first met Mr. Roland on a crummy night. The wind blew the neighbor’s leaves into my yard and rainwater rushed down the gutter, reflecting the streetlights. I was smoking a cigarette beneath my umbrella when I saw what had to be the only other person out on a … Continue reading
Tag Archives: Nick Bertelson
The Coyote Dies — Nick Bertelson
The trailer door opened and the sound of construction at a distance came in as more of a lull than anything. Dale did not look up. Even when the trailer’s door thwacked shut and a silence seemingly louder than the working settled in the trailer, Dale didn’t look up. Instead, he listened to his boss, … Continue reading
Fall 2010 / Issues / Poetry 2010 / Volume 41
Some of the Women — Nick Bertelson
“…how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again…” -James Joyce, Ulysses who let you watch them mornings when they dressed; who sent you up ladders; who left blood in back seats; who skulked across their parents’ … Continue reading
Fall 2010 / Issues / Poetry 2010 / Volume 41
Moon and Freckle — Nick Bertelson
I. Now it’s summer in our separate rooms, where in mine night renders the spackled drywall a constellation-like map of your freckles; so does your light make you think of my bellybutton? 2. Doubts. I have them. 3. You said, The sea always drinks the sun, but in the orchard, with myths of Newton and Eve … Continue reading
Places to Change — Nick Bertelson
I. Misstep Coty and I made the pact in sixth grade. If Osama Bin Laden wasn’t dead by the time we graduated high school, the two of us would join the army and kill him ourselves. All through lower school, Coty played with other kids’ ears. I remember his hands, as dry as cork board, … Continue reading
The Driving Instructor Dreams of Flying — Nick Bertelson
While getting to know his students, the driving instructor rarely hesitated to delve into his dreams. Dreams were something everyone, no matter what age, could relate to. And it concerned him that he had not, in his forty years of life, dreamt he could fly. It seemed to him the most common dreams were of … Continue reading
Hewn — Nick Bertelson
The Trans-Canada pipe-layers arrive to dig their trench. They will cut and pile the poplars on a tilled square of dirt where lazy heads of lettuce are purpling in the autumn sun. Their supervisor approaches my house, knocking on the front door. Sadie barks from her kennel outside as the trimmers chainsaw the poplars now … Continue reading
Coe Review 