and kept a small calm in the palm of her hand,
as the tip of her shoe tugged the trees out from under
the sky, all black with the spans of turkey buzzards,
thunderheads heaping the horizon like suds.
And she loved him reciprocally, but he was trouble.
He sat, one oceanic hand spread out on the table,
the other on his knee, his muscular neck
turning as his eyes turned the face of the clock,
a broad smile bending his bony dome.
The rain came down. She remembered a time
he caught a tornado, tucked it behind her ear.
They'd strolled through a clearing, through lupine, shooting star,
briar, blue chicory, and up to a ridge
to listen while meadowlarks sang in the sage.
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
The Human Need to Find Connections in Everything
It’s the source of creativity and delusions. It can harm us more than it helps us.
Happy Constitution Day!
Too bad it’s almost certainly unconstitutional.