Biography of Andrea Hollander
Andrea Hollander (Budy) (born April 28, 1947 Berlin, Germany) is an American poet. Her most recent poetry collection is Landscape with Female Figure: New & Selected Poems, 1982 - 2012 (Autumn House Press, 2013), which was a finalist for the Oregon Book Award in Poetry. Her work has appeared in Poetry, The Georgia Review, The Gettysburg Review, New Letters, FIELD, Five Points, Shenandoah, and Creative Nonfiction. She was raised in Colorado, Texas, New York, and New Jersey, and educated at Boston University and the University of Colorado. From 1991 till 2013, Hollander was writer-in-residence at Lyon College. She married designer/builder Todd Budy, on July 18, 1976, and divorced him on August 16, 2011. They have a son, Brooke. Until their divorce they lived in the Ozark Mountains near Mountain View, Arkansas. Hollander, who reclaimed her maiden name after the divorce, now lives in Portland, Oregon, where she teaches writing workshops at The Attic Institute for Arts and Letters and at Mountain Writers Series.
Andrea Hollander Poems
They decide finally not to speak of it, the one blemish in their otherwise blameless marriage. It happened
A woman is born to this: sift, measure, mix, roll thin. She learns the dough until it folds into her skin and there is no difference. Much later she tries to lose it. Makes bets with herself and wins enough to keep trying. One day she begins that long walk in unfamiliar woods. She means to lose everything she is. She empties her dark pockets, dropping enough crumbs to feed all the men who have ever touched her or wished. When she reaches the clearing she is almost transparent— so thin the old woman in the house seizes only the brother. You know the rest: She won't escape that oven. She'll eat the crumbs meant for him, remember something of his touch, reach for the sifter and the cup.
Southern France, 1945 What young men won't do, my father wondered, scalpel in hand, his army drabs stained red, catching his breath beneath his surgeon's mask, peering again into the body of this boy he guesses joined up like all the rest: to prove something. And my father's task of cutting—cutting through tissue and bone, using everything he's learned. War is war, of course. He knows that. His job: to keep these boys alive, even the Germans, to cut past gangrened flesh. Afterwards the intricate suturing, the mangled limbs removed from the antiseptic table by someone else. How he's able to do this, hour after hour, one body becoming another, he doesn't know. He thinks of this now in Brooklyn walking down Court Street to the barber past all the specialty shops—cheese wheels from France, barrels of pickles, salmon and mussels on racks of ice, rabbit carcasses, their skins removed, hanging above displays of liver and chops. Against his will the smell and the sound of the saw he always had to use, the feel of it, and in his arm the ache.
For Weeks After the Funeral
The house felt like the opera, the audience in their seats, hushed, ready, but the cast not yet arrived.
Long after I married you, I found myself in his city and heard him call my name. Each of us amazed, we headed to the café
A woman is born to this:
sift, measure, mix, roll thin.
She learns the dough until
it folds into her skin and there is
no difference. Much later
she tries to lose it. Makes bets