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Regions of space took my strength away‚ but nervously I rose again to check the locks. Being a single adult in a house of children says nothing at all about time zero. Says nothing at all about hatchets and blaze. What I found most beautiful was his shout from across the court‚ shout of victory. Solid bodies of coaches. Much as the translation of a book into five different languages might seem to confuse its origin‚ the various models of the mother begin to overlap. In one‚ she buttons her coat. In another‚ she faces the waves. In a third‚ the lips are chapped‚ fourth‚ licked‚ fifth nothing—only a certain temperature‚ cooler than the air. That’s it. My name is called.
This poem is part of BR’s special package celebrating National Poetry Month.
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But I do miss the hymns, / the small, hard apples with their dimpled skin. I do miss / things.
The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
Protests in China are shining a light not only on the country’s draconian population management but restrictions on workers everywhere.