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Homage to Poe Author(s): Jeffrey Skinner Source: The Iowa Review, Vol. 34, No. 3 (Winter, 2004/2005), p. 150 Published by: University of Iowa Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20151923 . Accessed: 15/06/2014 06:31 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp . JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected]. . University of Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Iowa Review. http://www.jstor.org This content downloaded from 185.2.32.49 on Sun, 15 Jun 2014 06:31:19 AM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

Homage to Poe

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Page 1: Homage to Poe

Homage to PoeAuthor(s): Jeffrey SkinnerSource: The Iowa Review, Vol. 34, No. 3 (Winter, 2004/2005), p. 150Published by: University of IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20151923 .

Accessed: 15/06/2014 06:31

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].

.

University of Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Iowa Review.

http://www.jstor.org

This content downloaded from 185.2.32.49 on Sun, 15 Jun 2014 06:31:19 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

Page 2: Homage to Poe

Homage to Poe

I cut my father into firewood. He made about a half cord, plus a

small bundle of kindling. All through three winters he burned, not

fast and pretty as birch, not long and smoky as oak, but steady, with

light in exact proportion to the heat it gave off.

Years later: brutal winter. There was of course no more father for

the fire. But I gathered our small family and, on our knees, we gave thanks for the unselfish gift he had once provided us in time of

need. Then we all went to bed save me, who stayed up per usual

staring into a fire consuming some other manner of fuel.

From within the play of flames I was assailed by a small doubt:

did my father really offer himself so freely? Was there not the dis

tant, muffled memory of his objections, repressed until this very moment?

I plunged out of the house, onto the porch, the cold smack of night. Stars were there, oh yes?distant and many, their clean, granular fires. But not one answered yes, or no.

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