M A R G I E  The American Journal of Poetry     www.margiereview.com

Published Annually in the Fall                                     MARGIE  P. O. BOX 250, CHESTERFIELD, MO 63006-0250

            Two herons were walking slowly in the shallow end of the pond, pausing every now and then to dip below the water and nab a small fish.  They would throw back their heads to swallow the fish.  It was very peaceful watching them from my side of the bank.  A motorcycle went by on the road above the pond, coughing loudly.  Then the motor-cyclist turned and drove down the hill to where I was standing.  The herons flew away.  “Which way to Mechanicsville?” he said.  “You go down 116 about twenty miles until you come to 32, take a right and go for about thirty-five miles until you come to 178, go north for about seventeen miles and you’re there,” I said.  “Thanks,” he said and took off up the hill.  I stood there staring at the pond.  There was a turtle resting on a rock near the center.  A woman walked by and said to me, “Do you know where I could get a duck?”  “A duck to eat?” I said.  “Not, to love and care for,” she said.  “I’m afraid I don’t,” I said.  “Well, you’re a great one to be hanging around a pond,” she said.  “Well, maybe I do.  There’s a farmer out on Route 6 who raises ducks.  He lives in a blue house and his name is Claude Lefko,” I said.  “Why, thank you very much,” she said.  She had duck feathers sticking out of her rear-end.  The turtle had disappeared from the rock.  There was a snake swimming in the water.  On a bright, sunny afternoon the pond is my favorite place to be.  A man in a military uniform walked by.  He stopped and said, “Have you seen my duck?”  “What’s he look like?” I said.  “I lost him in a childhood poker game.  I just have the feeling that he’s still looking for me.  I’m afraid he won’t recognize me in uniform,” he said.  Then he sat down on a stump and put his face in his hands.  “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him, and I’ll mention the uniform,” I said.  A jet flew over and dipped its wings.  The soldier got up and walked into the water until he disappeared.

JAMES TATE was born in Kansas City, Missouri.  He is the author of Return To the City of White Donkeys (2004); Memoir of the Hawk (2001); Shroud of the Gnome (1997); Worshipful Company of Fletchers (1994), which won the National Book Award; Selected Poems (1991) which won the Pulitzer Prize and the William Carlos Williams Award for Poetry.  He is also the author of three books of prose, including a collection of stories, Dreams of a Dancing Robot Bee, and the editor of The Best American Poetry 1997.  His many honors include the Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets.  He teaches in the MFA program for poets and writers at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst.  Forthcoming is The Ghost Soldiers (2007).