Listen to W.S. Di Piero reading this poem. Hankies and sheets, hopeless routine longing,
my mother and I, in the cellar twice each week,
her Sunbeam coasting under screws of steam,
me on my knees by the ironing board
to call Hail Mary's. Our bodies vapored
into immaculate words. Shirt tails talked back.
I wanted more than what I prayed for.
Her music-box antiphons mumbled us
around the decades. Neither of us knew
why or what we implored. God jerked alive
TODAY IN SLATE
The Irritating Confidante
John Dickerson on Ben Bradlee’s fascinating relationship with John F. Kennedy.
My Father Invented Social Networking at a Girls’ Reform School in the 1930s
Renée Zellweger’s New Face Is Too Real
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
The All The President’s Men Scene That Captured Ben Bradlee
Is It Better to Be a Hero Like Batman?
Or an altruist like Bruce Wayne?
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.