ISSUES | fall 1980

One of the peculiarities of out present literary age is that future times will find it remarkably difficult to say of us that “history proved us wrong.” The reason for this is that we take so few real stands on the literary quality of contemporary works.

This poem is not addressed to me, but it was not written except to teach me the meaning of its disregard. Its message could not have been more swift and deadly.

Interviewer: How did you begin writing? Do you remember exactly?

Justice: Not exactly. It was during asolescence, when many people must start. I think there is a sort of stir, a boiling up of things.

This poem is not currently available online.

This poem is not currently available online.

This poem is not currently available online.

“I Want to Believe It”
“Elegy for my Sister”
“After You”
“As it Happens”

This poem is not currently available online.

“By a Lost Riverside”
“My Mother’s Garden”
“My Father’s Garden”
“Weeds”

That morning she pours Teacher’s over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window. I go, “Holly, this can’t continue. This has got to stop.”

I was in bed when I heard the gate unlatch. I listened carefully. I didn’t hear anything else. But I had heard that. I tried to wake Cliff. But he was passed out. So I got up and went to the window. A big moon hung over the mountains that surrounded the city. It was a white moon and covered with scars. Easy enough to imagine a face there — eye sockets, nose, even the lips.

Vera’s car was there, no others, and Burt gave thanks for that. He pulled into the drive and stopped beside the pie he’d dropped last night. It was still there, the aluminum pan upside down, a halo of pumpkin filling on the pavement. It was Friday, almost noon, the day after Christmas.