Click here to listen to Lisa Russ Spaar read this poem.
Stars of the Great and Small Bears, lost in a cobalt padlock above Detroit, the orient coruscations of car factories, skating ponds, six-lane highways, now lumbering across decades into my childhood suburb, that rimed ruin— picnic table, dispirited shucks and obeisant leeks of our winter garden, homunculus at the mind's edge—I can't return to you, though I believe you're calling me from the polar house of hibernal fear with its skirted vanity table, its angry mirror & Bakelite brush, bristles up, still fleeced with a child's hair, a wavering frequency in the key of oblivion, mammalian, contracting.
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.