What Remains, and: Nothing to See Here

What Remains, and: Nothing to See Here as we flee from our inside perspective to a new understanding that God wants His people, in their overweening pride, to hasten through doors and do His work meekly, not inside churches but outside. Tana Jean Welch What Remains Bulls with bells around their necks, large black bulls flipping over in dust, dancing with yards of yellow silk. Her father carrying her through the gates of the arena, an easel strapped to his back, a warm churro in her small fist. Bulls slowly turning red at the bite of each lance. People outside the arena, shouting, turning red under buckets of insincere blood, to make a point, her father said. People inside cheering, waving white handkerchiefs, hoping to be thrown a tail or a hoof. After his death, the girl spent months trying to believe in ghosts, in something that smelled like her father: Old Spice, Budweiser, linseed—she managed to muster a phantom father dragging his old brushes and paint over canvas, an exact likeness who stayed in nightclothes till dinner, smashed empty beer cans— But soon enough her mother sold the last painting 143 and the spirit sped away, popping wheelies on a damaged motorcycle without saying so http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Prairie Schooner University of Nebraska Press

What Remains, and: Nothing to See Here

Prairie Schooner, Volume 85 (3) – Oct 15, 2011

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2008 the University of Nebraska Press.
ISSN
1542-426X

Abstract

as we flee from our inside perspective to a new understanding that God wants His people, in their overweening pride, to hasten through doors and do His work meekly, not inside churches but outside. Tana Jean Welch What Remains Bulls with bells around their necks, large black bulls flipping over in dust, dancing with yards of yellow silk. Her father carrying her through the gates of the arena, an easel strapped to his back, a warm churro in her small fist. Bulls slowly turning red at the bite of each lance. People outside the arena, shouting, turning red under buckets of insincere blood, to make a point, her father said. People inside cheering, waving white handkerchiefs, hoping to be thrown a tail or a hoof. After his death, the girl spent months trying to believe in ghosts, in something that smelled like her father: Old Spice, Budweiser, linseed—she managed to muster a phantom father dragging his old brushes and paint over canvas, an exact likeness who stayed in nightclothes till dinner, smashed empty beer cans— But soon enough her mother sold the last painting 143 and the spirit sped away, popping wheelies on a damaged motorcycle without saying so

Journal

Prairie SchoonerUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Oct 15, 2011

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