Click here to listen to Ellen Wehle read this poem.
He for whom we set an extra place at table.
On the eve of bombardment
Rumors fly: Stalin himself, come to rescue his city.
How terrible our thirst, how patient,
Excalibur at lake-bottom. In Rome, a coroner
Clicks off the mic as weeping
Gangsters crowd the room, hound-like, licking their master's
Incisions. Whom we await. His field of force. Christ
Sighted doling out bread, No, someone
Ellen Wehle's book of poems is The Ocean Liner's Wake. She lives outside Chicago and is completing her first novel.
For Slate's poetry submission guidelines, click spacerhereyeshyperlinkPoetry SubmissionsSlate reads new poems from Oct. 1 to April 30. Manuscripts sent between May 1 and Sept. 30 will not be considered.To submit poems: Send, as a single attached document, up to three poems of no more than 50 lines each to email@example.com. Use the poet's name for the subject line of the e-mail and for the title of the attachment. We prefer Word documents (.doc or .docx) to PDFs.Please include a brief, professional cover letter, including publication history, in the body of your email. Please limit submissions to one per poet per annual reading period. Simultaneous submissions are OK. Slate no longer accepts poetry submissions by mail. The email address firstname.lastname@example.org is for poetry submissions only (or to notify editors of acceptance elsewhere of a poem under consideration at Slate). Other inquiries, etc., will not be addressed.10000false220061444537PMWednesdayJanJanuary161/4/2006 9:45:37 PM63271989937000000020061444537PMWednesdayJanJanuary161/4/2006 9:45:37 PM632719899370000000.Clickhere to visit Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site.Click here for an archive of "Poet's Choice" columns from the Washington Post.