Anne Pierson Wiese

The twist of the stream was inscrutable. It was a seemingly run-of-the-mill stream that flowed for several miles by the side of Route 302 in northern Vermont— and presumably does still—but I’ve not been back there for what seems like a long time. I have it in my mind’s eye, the way one crested a rise and rounded a corner on the narrow blacktop, going west, and saw off to the left in the flat green meadow the stream turning briefly back on itself to form a perfect loop—a useless light-filled water noose or fragment of moon’s cursive, a sign or message of some kind—but left behind.

Down at the end of Baxter Street, where Five Points slum used to be, just north of Tombs, is a pocket park. On these summer days the green plane trees’ leaves linger heavy as a noon mist above the men playing mah jongg—more Chinese in the air than English.  The city’s composed of village greens; we rely on the Thai place on the corner: Tom Kha for a cold, jasmine tea for fever, squid for love, Duck Yum for loneliness.  Outside, the grove of heat, narrow streets where people wrestle rash and unseen angels; inside, the coolness of a glen and the wait staff in their pale blue collars offering ice water. Whatever you’ve done or undone, there’s a dish for you to take out or eat in: spice for courage, sweet for chagrin.