The tiny baby flails at my chest.
The tiny nails, they tear
me up, they shred me to pieces.
Nothing will ever be the same.
In the cold March wind
are pink blossoms suspended,
yellow blossoms white blossoms
and snow all hung, suspended, the March wind
ripping—
and nothing comes back together.
I am not what you think I am.
This Issue
December 18, 2025
Andrew O’Hagan
The Soundtrack of a Generation
Jed S. Rakoff
It’s a Racket!
Annette Gordon-Reed
Jefferson Divided
This Issue
December 18, 2025
Andrew O’Hagan
The Soundtrack of a Generation
Jed S. Rakoff
It’s a Racket!
Annette Gordon-Reed
Jefferson Divided
