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
Meet the New Bosses
How the Republicans would run the Senate.
The Government Is Giving Millions of Dollars in Electric-Car Subsidies to the Wrong Drivers
Scotland Is Just the Beginning. Expect More Political Earthquakes in Europe.
Photos of the Crowds That Took Over NYC for the People’s Climate March
Friends Was the Last Purely Pleasurable Sitcom
This Whimsical Driverless Car Imagines Transportation in 2059
- Protesters Take to the Streets to Sound Alarm on Climate Change in New York, Across the World
- Knife-Carrying White House Jumper is Vet who Feared “Atmosphere Was Collapsing”
- North Korea: American Sentenced to Hard Labor Wanted to Become “Second Snowden”
- Almost One in Four Americans Support Idea of Splitting From the Union
Did America Get Fat by Drinking Diet Soda?
A high-profile study points the finger at artificial sweeteners.