Sapphic Fragment
I didn’t like sex in the beginning.
Somewhere in Greece, the sea eroded rocks.
There was no oracle. Spring lambs roasted
on wooden spits, sending a charred scent
into inland towns, smoke gathering on rooftops.
I had been lied to. Women, too, were violent.
The presidential candidate praised drones.
My sister was in the psychiatric hospital.
My mother kept repainting the kitchen.
Burnt orange, lime green. A dirty sort of gold.
In the nightclub bathroom, I inhaled strange
vapors, then smashed my head into a wall.
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.