by which we pacify with euphemism
our planned transgressions,
boundaries shifting convenience
into correct countriesis the language by which we pun on pleasure,
pour into our mouths the here-and-now,
an alphabet of aftertaste sour on our tonguesis the two dead children alive
again for the ten seconds it takes to read
in newsprint the absence of their breatha mistake of transposition,
a column of patient charts
switched like typosdread is the language
by which the Downs Syndrome girl,
unnamed but not unwritten,
is not the one aborted
firstdisguise is the deed that makes the dead
the correction, that stacks together
the specious: the mis-filed, the not-
chosen, the accidentally-left-
for, inconveniently worded, dead.
While I have you, can I ask you something? I’ll be quick.
Twenty-five thousand people subscribe to First Things. Why can’t that be fifty thousand? Three million people read First Things online like you are right now. Why can’t that be four million?
Let’s stop saying “can’t.” Because it can. And your year-end gift of just $50, $100, or even $250 or more will make it possible.
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