And in my exhaustion, my stupefied numb thought
Dug and dug its way down to where I knew
You were—though how could I believe it?
Once, your irony and honesty refused
To let you say, "Oh yes, my son the genius!"
When I showed you a poem—saying with Groucho deadpan,
As you handed me back the paper, the typed words
Already a little smudged: "Hopkins is a good poet."
And then you recited, "Margaret are you grieving
Over goldengrove unleaving? ... " winking
At the poets not yet born ... poets who would
Come after me, poets who would not believe
There was any such woman as you,
Who would say of them and their poetry,
Shrugging a little, smiling your sly, lopsided grin:
"How old are you, hon? From what I've read,
Your sex life must be very important to you."
Digging in the snow, digging with its nails
Down deep in the snow, the wind kept trying
To hollow a hole deep enough to escape its own bitter
Blowing of snow around the frozen garden.
TODAY IN SLATE
Don’t Expect Adrian Peterson to Go to Prison
In much of America, beating your children is perfectly legal.
Ken Burns on Why Teddy Roosevelt Would Never Get Elected in 2014
Cops Briefly Detain Django Unchained Actress Because They Thought She Was a Prostitute
Minimalist Cocktail Posters Make Mixing Drinks a Cinch
How the Apple Watch Will Annoy Us
A glowing screen attached to someone else’s wrist is shinier than all but the blingiest of jewels.
Rainbow Parties and Sex Bracelets
Where teenage sex rumors come from—and why they’re bad for parents and kids.
You Had to Be There
What we can learn from things that used to be funny.