Last Call: Poems on Alcoholism, Addiction, & Deliv. This item is unavailable.
Language: English
Published by Sarabande Books, 1997
- Softcover
- Used
Seller: Bay State Book Company, North Smithfield, RI, U.S.A.Bay State Book Company
AbeBooks seller since January 23, 2023
Condition: Used - Good
US$ 9.96
Item description from seller
The book is in good condition with all pages and cover intact, including the dust jacket if originally issued. The spine may show light wear. Pages may contain some notes or highlighting, and there might be a "From the library of" label. Boxed set packaging, shrink wrap, or included media like CDs may be missing.
Seller Inventory # BSM.1BHS8
- Title
- Last Call: Poems on Alcoholism, Addiction, & Deliv
- Publisher
- Sarabande Books
- Publication year
- 1997
- Condition
- good
- Binding
- Soft cover
- Language
- English
- ISBN 10
- 0964115182
- ISBN 13
- 9780964115187
Jeffrey Skinner has published three collections of poetry, Late Stars (Weslyan University Press, 1985), A Guide to Forgetting (Graywolf Press, 1988) and The Company of Heaven (University of Pittsburgh Press, 1992). His work has appeared in numerous literary magazines including The Atlantic, The New Yorker, The Nation, The Georgia Review, and Poetry. He has been awarded grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Ingram Merrill Foundation, the Howard Foundation, and several state arts councils. He is also a playwright, and two of his plays were finalists in the Eugene O'Neil Theater Conference competition. He is currently Director of Creative Writing and Professor of English at the University of Louisville.
"Synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Good-bye
You are saying good-bye to your last drink. There is no lover like her: bourbon, big gem in your palm and steep fiery blade in your throat, deadeye down. None like her but her sister, first gin, like your first seaswim, first woman whose brine took to your tongue, who could change the seasons of your cells like nothing else. Unless it was wine, finally your only companion, winking across the table, hinting in her rubies, her first-class labels, of her peasant blood and the coarse way she would open you.
Good-bye, beauties. You don't want to say it. You try to remember the night you fell out of the car and crawled to the curb, the night two of you stood screaming over your daughter's crib. You remember deaths by gin, by easy capsules- the friend who fell in silence and the friend who quoted Antony in his suicide note. All this helps for a moment, till your heart blooms and stiffens with desire.
- Joan Larkin
"About the title" may belong to another edition of this title.