I woke to the news you were dead. the what arrived before daylight; the how was agony unfolding as I dreaded my way to dusk. Unfolding against my want not to know (but I already knew, have known since I could know): officers, arrest, Black, man, twenty, video, knee, sir, back, dollar, 8:, counterfeit, hands, sorry, 46, mama, please, breathe, please! Were you tired George? I feel tired sometimes. America on my neck—my lungs compressed so much they can’t expand/contract— take in/send out—oxygen/words. My dentist says I grind my teeth. My molars are wearing smooth. The next night, I jolted awake to find my fists clenched tight (some fight), my heart pounding fast, my mouth hanging open, slack, not tight that time, just me on my own gasping for air 6 times a minute—a raspy sound. The world was darkness; my room was darkness. I lay in a state of in between and thought of you but also God. I wanted the sun but did not ask. I hoped instead for a quiet dawn and peace for us, real peace for us. I hoped so hard it almost made a prayer.
In Memoriam: Seamus Deane, Poet, Author, Critic "Seamus Deane, for the past 50 years one of Ireland’s foremost writers and critics, best-known for his award-winning autobiographical novel Reading in the Dark and the landmark Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, died last night in Beaumont Hospital after a short illness. He was 81." viaTHE IRISH TIMES
What Sparks Poetry: Rion Scott on Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays" "I often think about the precision in Hayden's language. The words that take on the work of casting several meanings. 'What did I know, what did I know/of love’s austere and lonely offices?' I know all the words he used, but in this formation, with the repetition, the odd use of the word 'offices' and its proximity to the words 'austere' and 'lonely,' the words seem alien and strange in the best way."
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