Yde Girl

Yde Girl

Facebook
Twitter
Email
Flipboard
Pocket

In the Drents Museum

The rope, it is a breathless yes
fingers press into this windy
oboe my throat—one woolen
waistband slip-knotted on neck
keeps me warm below twelve feet
of peat, lineless, a convalescent’s skin
only mud the boy-doctors dig into
unearthing each indivisible number.
How unlike the bark of that beetled elm,
its jagged beams and flagging crown
fine as the hair of a queen anemic—
But to be mistreated—This caused my beauty—

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 shifts the needle on important issues, uncovers malfeasance and corruption, and uplifts voices and perspectives that often go unheard in mainstream media.

Throughout this critical election year and a time of media austerity and renewed campus activism and rising labor organizing, independent journalism that gets to the heart of the matter is more critical than ever before. 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 properly investigate, thoroughly edit and fact-check articles, and get our stories into the hands of readers.

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
x