Henry Shukman

Behind the big stores the desert is hoary. Beneath the snow it will be the colour of night. The trailer homes, shut up, no lights on, bed cold under roofs the somnolent white of the sky.

Our airport shuttle is dark and trembles. Every car sheds its own aurora. At the intersection the red goes deep as midnight. To the wipers’ slow applause we turn

into the...

Chicken soup is magic, here’s the proof. Maybe if I’d opened the window a crack it would never have happened. But late in the war, I tip the lid to let the steam off

while the broth reduces to clear gold. Here’s my stove up one end and on the table at the other there’s the new baby, the seventh, the one we didn’t want but he was a boy,

after six girls you...