How delighted I was to hear personally from Florenz after The Disheveled Bed was published. Usually the work of a managing editor is done behind the scenes, more a matter of logistics and deadlines than aesthetics, but I came to understand that Joan and Florenz were true editorial partners in every sense. No book published those first 14 years of CKP was without Florenz’ blessing and imprimatur. I could not tell you how, specifically, but I am absolutely certain our books are better for her eye, ear, and heart. Learning that she lived in the town where I was born and grew up, Glen Rock, New Jersey, created a special additional bond. When I decided to write about this town and to include portraits of the ten victims of 9/11 from Glen Rock in September 12, Florenz helped me with research, and we looked forward to ice cream cones at Van Dyke’s on Ackerman Avenue when I next came out to Glen Rock. Sadly, that was not to be. In absentia, I raise a black raspberry cone to Florenz, with deep gratitude for the twinkle in her eyes, and for her enthusiasm and support.
-Andrea Carter Brown
Brook and Rainbow
from The Disheveled Bed
“Go ahead, touch,” you said so I petted
both almost dead fish. A drool of blood
clung to the rainbow’s underslung jaw.
By default I know the brook, its flanks
delicately freckled, tawny as a smog-bound
sunrise. A scant hour and I can’t believe
the change: the rainbow’s pastel prism
purpled over; the brook’s spots swollen
into splotches, enormous empty fish-eyes
staring back. I watch you scale, slit, gut,
wash, dry, dust with salt and peppered flour,
pan-fry, and filet them. On my plate, two
half fishes: you won’t tell me which is
which but it’s plain to see each carries
into death something of life—pink, blue,
and green veined near-translucency beside
opaque late summer sunset. We take a bite
of brook, one of rainbow. Then another
rainbow, and a brook, until tiny bones
fringe the rim like lashes. Why should we
have to chose? Yet, even when we don’t,
we do. If I could, would I undo everything
we’ve been through? Any scientist knows
a rainbow doesn’t actually exist, except
in the mind’s eye. Just try to hold on
to flowing water, it escapes or becomes
something else. But one changeable day,
showers vying with sun, you brought us
both, brook and rainbow, and I wouldn’t
trade the heartache that brought us to this
happiness for the world. If I had to,
I guess I’d take the brook, its down
to earth sweetness, the miracle of bugs
converted to muscle, like love
fattened on grief, lingering sweeter
on the tongue for what it’s consumed.
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