February 5th, 2009
Gary Short

Gary Short is the author of three volumes of poetry and three chapbooks. His first book, Theory of Twilight, was published by Ahsahta Press. His second book, Flying Over Sonny Liston (University of Nevada Press, 1996) won the Western States Book Award. His latest book is 10 Moons and 13 Horses (University of Nevada Press, 2004). He has served as poetry editor for Hayden’s Ferry Review and Shankpainter and was a Stegner Fellow at Stanford and a fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, as well as receiving the Writers at Work award from Quarterly West.
Short grew up outside of Reno, Nevada, and did his undergraduate work at Columbia Junior College and Fresno State, where he took courses with Peter Everwine, Chuck Hanzlichek and Phil Levine, graduating in 1976 having said less than 20 words in class. He received an MA in English from Sacramento State University and an MFA from Arizona State University. He has taught at the University of Alaska, Fairbanks, Old Dominion University and the University of California, Davis. He was a guest lecturer at the University of Tirana in Albania and lived in Guatemala for George W. Bush’s first presidential term. He is currently a professor and MFA program administrator at the University of Mississippi. His poems have appeared in several anthologies and in Antioch Review, Bloomsbury Review, Gettysburg Review, Ploughshares, Poetry, Runes, and many other magazines. He has work in the current Pushcart Anthology.

I Lay My Brother Down
The day before he dies
I lift him,
while the nurse works
coiled and crimped tubes
that run from his body,
a tangle of exterior veins.
The white sun breaks through the window,
takes the room and clarifies
shadows the simple poplar limbs make
on the hospital wall. The leaves are all gone.
The leaves and color are gone.
It hurts,
his bones sharp against my chest,
the lightness of him, his body
lucid and thinned
to this shaking weight.
A ninety-pound dying man.
Tomorrow he’ll be gone.
My brother’s eyes are closed.
I pull closer.
I want to hold him
in this world.
His hair brushes my cheek.
I lay my brother down
on the white sheet. My brother
opens his eyes
and sees shadows, sparrows on the wall
flocking to the bare limbs
of the poplar. “Look at that,”
he says and points,
“The leaves are returning to the tree.”







