Listen to Wesley McNair read this poem.
who must reach inside his chest is this small offering that lifts of their bodies, and their swift
In the old allegory of the wolves
chasing the dog sled across
the tundra in the waning
light of life, I myself
am suddenly the aging man
to find some failed organ
that might appease them,
though all I have now
to throw over my shoulder
in the wind when I turn back,
flying apart so high above them
it has nothing to do
with the gathering dark
legs that barely touch the snow,
and their cold, patient eyes.
who must reach inside his chest
is this small offering that lifts
of their bodies, and their swift
TODAY IN SLATE
I was hit by a teacher in an East Texas public school. It taught me nothing.
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