After we leave New York, I read a book about how to notlet the internet destroy my brain. I thinkthe answer is to have been raised in California,
to be a completely different person. At homepeople clap every night for healthcare workers.They clap like someone who’s seen their friend’s play
or flown in a plane when planes were still new.I call it sweet but don’t know how to judgepublic gestures, like when after the towers fell,
after our mother pulled us out of school,my little sister chastened me:“You shouldn’t be reading right now.”
My friends take me canoeing in the Housatonic River,where the drought is obvious, water lowand undressing the downed trees.
Steve noses his canoe through narrow channelsof branches. I break through brutely, scrapingthe belly of the boat against water-softened
trunks while a beaver slaps…
You're reading a preview of
The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2022