Grey sunshine on the streets today. Boys everywhere just waiting, standing on the corners, thinking like they invisible, like everyone don't know. I used to talk to them, walk right up, tell them to stop. "My sons," I'd say, "they got killed doing that, the both of them," but those boys never listen, only shuffle their feet, look away, shy, scared almost. One day a tall thin one, fifteen maybe, he said to me, "Miss Troya, I know about them boys of yours. I'm real sorry." And then he walked away, cigarette, falling down jeans, half-bearded boy-face. I saw him dying. I saw him dead. Not a gift I asked for, not something a person wants to know.
Kathleen Crowley
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The Literary Review: An International Journal of Contemporary Writing has been published quarterly by Fairleigh Dickinson University since 1957. Its many special issues have introduced new fiction, poetry, and essays from many nations, regions, or languages to English readers. Issues focus on such topics as contemporary fiction in Portugese, Iranian exiles, new Irish writing, North African authors, and Philippine fiction and poetry. Works from issues devoted to writing in English have won awards and been reprinted in many collections.
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