Catharine Savage Brosman

At Costa Maya, in the Yucatan,we walked the yellow jetty from the ship,with throngs of other visitors, to seea tacky shoppers’ mecca, with a mall,a plaza, palm trees, piles of souvenirs, sweet alcoholic drinks, and, for the ill,a pharmacy with drugs at cut-rate price.We wandered in the crowd, just . . . . Continue Reading »

You’re bound to lose: the house will always win,in time. At first, though, Fortune flatters thosewho yield to her enticements. You beginwith bits of luck, small stakes. If you propose a higher sum, she’ll play her violin,flash gold-flecked eyes, throw you a long-stemmed rose.When bets get high, . . . . Continue Reading »

For pleasure, Fortune, a designer, weaves.We are her stuff—yarn, thread, and loom, ideal.Her tapestry seems flawless; she conceivesit cunningly, attended by her wheel, whose mechanism works, apparently.But might there be a wheel of Providencethat goes around, beyond contingency? It waits . . . . Continue Reading »

—After photographs by Dorothea Lange taken in the Texas Panhandle Alone, a woman stands in black and whitesurveying a discolored sky aboveand nothing on the earth around her, savea windmill, with its blades congealed on film, vain, futile. Pride has not deserted her,her stance proclaims; but . . . . Continue Reading »

I’m seated at Gautreau’s, uptown, with Laine,fine student, now good friend. Obliged to bookan early hour—few choices in this bane,the Covid sequel—we take time to look at wine lists, menus, chatting; appetite’saroused thereby, and memories. How wellshe wrote, with industry and her . . . . Continue Reading »

The patroness of those beset by miceand rats, she stands before red tapestry.Blue floor tiles feature her preferred device:crude mousetraps, set to spring. Her sanctityis symbolized in halo, shepherd’s crook,the habit of an Augustinian nun,and downcast eyes, to read her open book.Still, mice will . . . . Continue Reading »

She is already what she will become.In crimson cape, her neck pierced by a sword,she holds the palm of peace and martyrdom— both suffering and glory, her reward. The striking textile pattern, a rosette, recurs in hues of amethyst and jade, suggesting jewels, perhaps an amulet for Christians. . . . . Continue Reading »

His attributes are few—a book, a rodwith three large hooks. But it cannot conveythe tortures, multiple, endured for God—the rack, a gridiron, burnt flesh wrenched away. Portrayed in deacon’s vestments, Vincent showsno fear. He does not see the butterfliesthat form the border. Why the . . . . Continue Reading »

As lovely as a girl aged twenty-twocan be—intelligent, slim, self-possessed,and beautiful. It’s Florida; it’s newto her, like marriage. Smiling, smartly dressed, she poses, shaded by a palm, besidea terra cotta jar. The honeymoonhas just begun, the cattleya fresh, the bridestill radiant. . . . . Continue Reading »

The movers get it out—a Steinway grand,half-rolled, half-carried to the street. A crowd,molecular, implicit, is at handalready. Music hovers meanwhile, proudto weave into the day its ideal strand.A pianist appears, hirsute and browedlike Rubinstein. Who would not understandthis may be Art? He . . . . Continue Reading »