Illustration by Tim Robinson.
We’ve traveled to a field with its innerservings of sand and wolves. The sand is owned and never
appears on a map because the owners want its hardtender invisible. The space trembles and is built up and seems
eliminated. It has come to rest and I am in a hurryto listen. Nothing might be more
fragile than smearing infinity aroundand waiting dutiful centuries. Sun hovers
every high and low, posing and pointing as necessity.Eros I once believed could make me
an incredible promise. Sincere, I took it. Of course Ialso learned no love
loves a stain. In confidence, we discussed it. Previously. We hidunattended until finally our settlement of us
decided to stay. To clarify, to celebrate we canopyin the desert where the sun singing sand on a loop
becomes sensemaking. We are dirty and casual,the day getting rich quick
on distance. Making a noteabout a note and whatever
he says, whatever I forgot to unknot, I tendto sift through the waning
Over the past year you’ve read Nation writers like Elie Mystal, Kaveh Akbar, John Nichols, Joan Walsh, Bryce Covert, Dave Zirin, Jeet Heer, Michael T. Klare, Katha Pollitt, Amy Littlefield, Gregg Gonsalves, and Sasha Abramsky take on the Trump family’s corruption, set the record straight about Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s catastrophic Make America Healthy Again movement, survey the fallout and human cost of the DOGE wrecking ball, anticipate the Supreme Court’s dangerous antidemocratic rulings, and amplify successful tactics of resistance on the streets and in Congress.
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Onward,
Katrina vanden Heuvel
Editor and publisher, The Nation
light. It’s another summer bending; it is nearly thirtyyears. There’s a room here for washing
one’s feet. I don’t know if you need to be clean.
Lauren Camp