Mar 1, 2007
1 Min read time
Share:
They never learned to tell
one bird from another, a shrub
from a weedy sapling,
or when the season had
forced a flower’s bloom, not
even if a berry
had ripened into poison.
And yet they drew endless
distinctions between
colors and polish and
coarseness of weave,
and would not let
their daughters
marry out.
They didn’t keep
their children, though they
gave them tests and fed
them. They were known
for meticulous records, for
their trophies and peeling stars.
They burned things up
or wore them down, had ranks
and staff and lecterns,
machines that moved them
from place to place, bright
jewels and playing cards.
They were old when they could
have been young, and young
when they could have been old.
They left a strange word
in a tree: croatoan,
and a track in the dust of Mars.
While we have you...
...we need your help. You might have noticed the absence of paywalls at Boston Review. We are committed to staying free for all our readers. Now we are going one step further to become completely ad-free. This means you will always be able to read us without roadblocks or barriers to entry. It also means that we count on you, our readers, for support. If you like what you read here, help us keep it free for everyone by making a donation. No amount is too small. You will be helping us cultivate a public sphere that honors pluralism of thought for a diverse and discerning public.
March 01, 2007
1 Min read time
