November 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011
Like a scar across the earth,
Like my fingers were peasants,
I touch where the penknife had
Plunged & stood. I watch you
Watch an oil tanker, its port-
Side scrawled in wide, fat lettering
I’d mistake for hieroglyphics
If not for your soft I can read that
Punctuated by a long, hard sigh.
Your neck’s scent conjures ore-
Rich dirt, stands of date trees
As far as my eye can’t fathom but
In spades, they shaded our porch,
Lined our colonnade even when—
You throw a pebble at nothing
You’d want to haul to the next life
After this next life: this chemical plant
We’ve trespassed, we’re boozed.
Stories pour forth & I hear
Zilch, just imagine you shrieking
As if you found where hell came
To die, & now you bear its etching
On your fleshy bulb of knee
My hand keeps brushing. Dawn’s
Past. You want eggs. From
A booth we scrutinize passers-by:
This one caustic, this soul-shattered,
Most just bored with their lives.
The sun is full through the window.
I don’t recall your last name.
While we have you...
...we need your help. Confronting the many challenges of COVID-19—from the medical to the economic, the social to the political—demands all the moral and deliberative clarity we can muster. In Thinking in a Pandemic, we’ve organized the latest arguments from doctors and epidemiologists, philosophers and economists, legal scholars and historians, activists and citizens, as they think not just through this moment but beyond it. While much remains uncertain, Boston Review’s responsibility to public reason is sure. That’s why you’ll never see a paywall or ads. It also means that we rely on you, our readers, for support. If you like what you read here, pledge your contribution to keep it free for everyone by making a tax-deductible donation.
November 01, 2011