Wyn Cooper
I close in on facts fine as sugar
poured from a bottle labeled
SALT,
comprehend nothing.

I hear a knock, then another,
go to the door but no one's there.
I unlock it and leave it open.

When the bottle's empty a note pops out,
its paper faded as the globe
on my desk. It's unreadable.

I spin the globe to see where it stops.
It rolls off the desk and hits the door,
which closes so hard it opens again.

I spin the globe more gently this time.
It stops where a country used to be.
I am tired. I am so tired of this.
from the journal THE PARIS REVIEW
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Before I began this poem I made a list of short, simple words: bottle, door, note, globe, then put them together without any clear intention, except for sound and rhythm. A week later, on the twentieth draft, I began to see where the poem might be going, and wrote the last two lines with the state of the world, and our country, in mind. When the poem appeared in "The Paris Review" in September 2020, many readers told me how it summed up their feelings about the pandemic. I hesitated to tell them I wrote the poem in 2019, before the pandemic. But I know how tired they were then too.

Wyn Cooper on "Message in a Bottle"
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