Circle of Women: An Anthology of Contemporary Western Women by Kim Barnes, Mary Clearman Blew

By Kim Barnes, Mary Clearman Blew

This outstanding array of reports, essays, and poems displays women’s reviews within the American West. even though the stories they inform mirror quite a few viewpoints, those writers proportion the fight opposed to the overpowering isolation as a result of gender and the actual environment.Contributors include:Christina Adam, Gretel Ehrlich, Anita Endrezze, Tess Gallagher, Molly Gloss, Pam Houston, Teresa Jordan, Cyra McFadden, Deirdre McNamer, Melanie Rae Thon, Marilynne Robinson, Annick Smith, Terry Tempest Williams, and Claire Davis 

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I must be part wild. I must be part tree or part deer. I got on the track and I was lost but it didn't matter. I had to go where it led. " Leslie is curled under my arm, asleep. "Truck rocks them to sleep," Morris says. "Reminds me, I don't have a license for this piece of junk. I hope I don't get stopped. Look at her sleep! right in the middle of the day. Watch this: 'Wake up honey, we're lost. Help me get home. ' She must be part butterfly, just look at those eyes. There-she's gone again. I'll have to carry her into the house.

It was just like Jay not to give a damn about blame or forgiveness. Willy's dive was easier, two somersaults without a twist, but flawless. H e crept ahead of Jay and no one else touched their scores. They sauntered to the bathhouse with their arms around each other's shoulders, knowing they'd won the day. Standing in the dappled light beneath an oak, Jay Tyler's mother hugged Willy and Jay, and his father pumped their hands. Willy wished his parents could have seen him, this day above all others, but his father was on duty; and old lady Griswold had died, so his mother was busy making her look prettier than she ever was.

In the hallway, out of sight, Aunt Opal spoke with the man and woman-"Well behaved," I heard her say-and then she departed with all the speed and indifference of a UPS driver. Through a tall window in the room I watched her headlights sweep across the cinnamon bark of a ponderosa pine. From someplace far away in the house came Christmas carols, wreathed in pure recorded voices. My body played tricks on me; my head hurt; my stomach knotted in an acid snarl. Suzanne growled in a baby way she had when she was tired or angry.

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