by Jennifer Landretti | Jul 1, 2015 | Essays
I once worked in a restaurant where a Dutch Masters box sat above the coffee machine. It had been there for years, a catch-all for earrings and lost keys. I looked at it every day. On a side panel were those six men in pilgrim clothing. One of them—the fellow seated...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2009 | Essays
My two boys, ages three and six, love a good bike ride and I take them out often. We travel on a single vehicle that includes a bicycle, a tag-along, and a trailer. My boys call this elaborate rig the “Burley Train.” Come Friday evenings, if the weather is fair, we...
by Jennifer Landretti | Mar 1, 2007 | Essays
The way to work is behind the book factory. The parking is free for anyone willing to walk a few blocks to where the office buildings begin. Some days I see a woman up on the loading bay, leaning on the bricks and working at the pace of the morning light. She is there...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2007 | Poetry
The things I’d never liked,like winter light in January,the long cold wasted afternoonstoo bright upon the scumbled cusp of December’s woodedgrays and greens—to slowly come to like such things,how much richer they seem for their unexpected seduction,like bitter...
by Jennifer Landretti | Apr 1, 1999 | Essays
July 6 A wet morning. The clouds scud by, looking dark and broken. They have that startled watchfulness of things flying past. I hunch on the gravel lot, making coffee. Six scoops, and one for the pot. Across the ravine, the yellow grasses of Bear Butte lift into fog:...
