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
From illegal war on Iran to an inhumane fuel blockade of Cuba, from AI weapons to crypto corruption, this is a time of staggering chaos, cruelty, and violence.
Unlike other publications that parrot the views of authoritarians, billionaires, and corporations, The Nation publishes stories that hold the powerful to account and center the communities too often denied a voice in the national media—stories like the one you’ve just read.
Each day, our journalism cuts through lies and distortions, contextualizes the developments reshaping politics around the globe, and advances progressive ideas that oxygenate our movements and instigate change in the halls of power.
This independent journalism is only possible with the support of our readers. If you want to see more urgent coverage like this, please donate to The Nation today.
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