slow poem

slow poem


slow things heard in old songs
sad songs sung by the sides of old inns
dry roses clutched by a lover
a wedding dress downriver
you will ask them their names
the women who remember
will ask you in turn where you come from
inside this small country
you are writing a book
it’s unfinished
the evening enfolding you slowly
a soreness in the fingers
who are you they ask
you will get in the car
with the mirror with the silver
flaking in the back
the book will receive much criticism
you knew it from the story
the bride gone downriver
where dusk pulls the sunset
quarter after quarter
so many have written
they will ask you with roses
will ask what to call you
by the river where you come.

Thank you for reading The Nation!

We hope you enjoyed the story you just read, just one of the many incisive, deeply reported articles we publish daily. Now more than ever, we need fearless journalism that moves the needle on important issues, uncovers malfeasance and corruption, and uplifts voices and perspectives that often go unheard in mainstream media.

Donate right now and help us hold the powerful accountable, shine a light on issues that would otherwise be swept under the rug, and build a more just and equitable future.

For nearly 160 years, The Nation has stood for truth, justice, and moral clarity. As a reader-supported publication, we are not beholden to the whims of advertisers or a corporate owner. But it does take financial resources to report on stories that may take weeks or months to investigate, thoroughly edit and fact-check articles, and get our stories to readers like you.

Donate today and stand with us for a better future. Thank you for being a supporter of independent journalism.

Thank you for your generosity.

Ad Policy