Click here to listen to Andrew Hudgins read this poem.
Jesus-the-wind combs Jesus-the-rye and shakes the limbs of Jesus-the-scrub-pine-and-alder, while a tractor, disking the rye, churns into the sunset red clouds of Jesus. Jesus-the-bank-of-young-ferns fringes Jesus-the-sluggish-and-rocky-stream rich with tadpoles, crayfish and almost invisible minnows, all Jesus Himself. Jesus-the-green-worm inches up air. He humps His body, pulls His end to His middle, and pushes upward to where he started, climbing His own fine thread until a gust of Jesus snaps the silk and sends Him flying. Jesus-the-lightning explodes an oak. Jesus-the-thunder reverberates through green leaves, the Jesus leaves, silencing the Jesus-chitter of squirrels, wrens and cicadas, and in the distance the tractor never stops grinding rye into the earth, preparing it for seed, as the gunpowder smell of nitrogen settles over heaven.
TODAY IN SLATE
Black people’s disdain for “proper English” and academic achievement is a myth.
Hong Kong’s Protesters Are Ridiculously Polite. That’s What Scares Beijing So Much.
The One Fact About Ebola That Should Calm You: It Spreads Slowly
How White Boy Rick, a legendary Detroit cocaine dealer, helped the FBI uncover brazen police corruption.
A Jaw-Dropping Political Ad Aimed at Young Women, Apparently
How Even an Old Hipster Can Age Gracefully
On their new albums, Leonard Cohen, Robert Plant, and Loudon Wainwright III show three ways.