The Nightmare Touches Its Forehead to My Lips

The Nightmare Touches Its Forehead to My Lips

The Nightmare Touches Its Forehead to My Lips

Facebook
Twitter
Email
Flipboard
Pocket

The sky feels like a k-pin
doused with some other shit that’ll kill you—
infectious harp.
 
::
 
The space between language—
shard of porcelain
from the dictator’s house.
 
::
 
Looking back—
so many lives like veils undressed
in the sullen dark.
 
::
 
Names etched on my heart.
 
::
 
Be grateful, the whole future isn’t a skull—
blue silk in the grey matter
like water from sand.
 

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.

x