To hear the poet read "Horizon," click here.
Mother, I think, what could comfort you?
I might as well ask a piece of paper
for panaceas. I remember the fevers,
the figments of your agitations:
once the balustrades of our house
trembled, your children turned wooden
and burned to leave you. Now,
in your den of grievances, you seem
cornered, possessed, relentless,
all repudiation of reason. So I try
to change subjects, anything wild
from the news: a scandal, a strange
scientific wonder, like the dinosaur
fossil with feathers. That makes you
sullen, flat. I can't think how
to disarm or distract. Then, as if
I'd fallen suddenly asleep and you need
to wake me, you inject a dead
enemy's name, her antique crime,
and your old animation's restored--
that animus, like ash, aflame once more!
A hundred miles from your telephone,
I watch a small white sailboat
that appears to be in flight, or like
a feather, afloat, untethered, so
heavenly I know not to mention it.
A hundred miles from you, I see bay
and sky becomes one color, pearl blue.
The horizon beyond us both, invisible.
TODAY IN SLATE
More Than Scottish Pride
Scotland’s referendum isn’t about nationalism. It’s about a system that failed, and a new generation looking to take a chance on itself.
What Charles Barkley Gets Wrong About Corporal Punishment and Black Culture
Why Greenland’s “Dark Snow” Should Worry You
Three Talented Actresses in Three Terrible New Shows
Why Do Some People See the Virgin Mary in Grilled Cheese?
The science that explains the human need to find meaning in coincidences.
Happy Constitution Day!
Too bad it’s almost certainly unconstitutional.