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dc.contributor.authorGorman, Taylor P.
dc.date.accessioned2015-12-10T16:43:51Z
dc.date.available2015-12-10T16:43:51Z
dc.date.issued2015
dc.identifier.citationGorman, Taylor P. 2015. A black hole moved into the neighborhood. New Orleans Review, vol. 41:pp 1-2en_US
dc.identifier.issn0028-6400
dc.identifier.otherWOS:000363828700002
dc.identifier.urihttp://www.neworleansreview.org/a-black-hole-moved-into-the-neighborhood
dc.identifier.urihttp://hdl.handle.net/10057/11670
dc.descriptionClick on the link to access the article (may not be free).en_US
dc.description.abstractI took with me everywhere else I’d been before. I’d bought a house on a corner and dismantled it like a stage-hand. When I spoke, my voice sounded like everything. When my neighbors asked if they should be worried, I said I wasn’t there to swallow and crush them into infinitesimal things. So, I stayed in the neighborhood, attended parties, went to meetings, got a job at the demolition company. The women in town wanted to date me, but they didn’t know why, or how. Once, someone asked if I ever wore clothes, and I responded that I was coated inside with everything I’d ever seen. Does anything ever come back? someone asked. I didn’t know. What was it like to be a black hole? I said the only word for it was “hungry.” I said my body was a library of the forgotten.en_US
dc.language.isoen_USen_US
dc.publisherDepartment of English at Loyola University New Orleansen_US
dc.relation.ispartofseriesNew Orleans Review;v.41
dc.titleA black hole moved into the neighborhooden_US
dc.typePoetryen_US
dc.rights.holder© Copyright 2015en_US


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