HOME / poem: A weekly poem, read by the author.

"Siren"

By Paul BreslinPosted Tuesday, July 22, 2008, at 7:33 AM ET

Listen to Paul Breslin read this poem.


I could swear it is saying my name,
a human voice full of pain and anger:

it's the police come to arrest me
for a crime so long concealed
I forget its name. Or my father's ghost,
crying he might have lived
had I loved him better. It's my mother
folding her arms and saying take your anger
someplace else, it doesn't belong to me;
my wife asking Is this good-bye then?
Or my daughter in childhood saying
hoarsely through tears, Dad,
how can you say that to me?

So many things were almost the end.

At the fire station around the corner,
the engines are pulling away.

So little to separate us
from the one the siren is for,
whose house flies into the air as cinders,
who lies on his bed turning purple and clutching his heart.

Print This ArticlePRINTEmail to a FriendE-MAILShare This ArticleRECOMMEND...Get Slate RSS FeedsRSS
Paul Breslin, professor of English at Northwestern University, is the author most recently of You Are Here.
For Slate's poetry submission guidelines, click here.

Click here to visit Robert Pinsky's Favorite Poem Project site.

Click here for an archive of "Poet's Choice" columns from the Washington Post.
What did you think of this article?
Join The Fray: Our Reader Discussion Forum
POST A MESSAGE | READ MESSAGES
The disabled.TODAY'S PICTURES: The disabled.
Cartoonists' take on the economy.TODAY'S CARTOONS: Cartoonists' take on the economy.
A little help.TODAY'S DOONESBURY: A little help.
Washington Post
The Washington Post
OPINIONS
Closet Centrist
Gerson | With his cabinet picks, Obama disappoints the ideologues.
Marcus: Was Summers Right?Topic A: A Confirmation Battle?
PLUS » Milbank: Do You Smell Something?