SPRING ISSUE AVAILABLE NOW
Signal Station, Summit of Maryland Heights, 2005
Even if you're right,
and there's in fact a difference
between trouble unlooked-for, and
the kind of trouble we pursued…
Patrick is fourteen, this is earth, it's dark, it's cold out, he's
American, he's white, straight, not everyone has cell phones, he's
sitting on the carpet of the TV room on the third floor holding the
remote in both hands of his lap…
I am desperate for water.
"No shade," I tell my Afghan colleague and translator Masood.
He shrugs and gets out of our car and I follow him past a ruined
metal gate into Sakhi, a camp for the homeless outside Mazar-e
Sharif in northern Afghanistan…
We flounder through powdery snow
Twins bound by the tongue's sweet saliva,
My round-the-world dawns break inside you over you…
If what Father Carlos, the guest master at Gethsemane, tells us
holds true – that God is most himself when he's silent – maybe I'm
not so far from understand him as I thought. God has been silent
in my life…
The day before he died, my son called his sisters, their husbands,
his aunts and uncles, and told them thank you, he had been loved.
He had been given a sign, he said. It was over, or almost, and he
wanted them to know…
Silk Road, a poem by Peter Balakian
for Agha Shahid Ali
I drove in snow to Clinton.
My car slid into a field of stubble.
Cows appeared and disappeared in drifts…