Listen to Peter Campion reading this poem. In the dream where the dead return but never speak they sauntered up the lawn: my mother's father and our neighbor who was shot in the robbery.
Maple branches twisting between the houses
scattered sun on their skin. And it didn't feel
like an afterlife: bathed in silver shade
and tennis shirts, they were just two other people
with those stippled faces mere will had not remembered.
The sunrise, when birdcries from the roof
shattered the airshaft, was catastrophe.
Then minutes afterwards, I was standing
pulling the chalky paste across my teeth.
TODAY IN SLATE
Driving in Circles
The autonomous Google car may never actually happen.
Where Ebola Lives Between Outbreaks
Gunman Killed Inside Canadian Parliament; Soldier Shot at National Monument Dies
Sleater-Kinney Was Once America’s Best Rock Band
Can it be again?
Paul Farmer: Up to 90 Percent of Ebola Patients Should Survive
Is he right?
“I’m Not a Scientist” Is No Excuse
Politicians brag about their ignorance while making ignorant decisions.
The Right to Run
If you can vote, you should be able to run for public office—any office.