Support First Things by turning your adblocker off or by making a  donation. Thanks!

Wasted Time

From the January 2019 Print Edition

You’d think that after New Year’s boozy kisses,Back-slapping, and effusions in confetti,The last hors-d’oeuvres and passes at the Mrs.Beneath the hanging cardboard amoretti, Time would relax, agree to stay a while,Hang up his sandals, lay aside his shift,And sleep it off until the . . . . Continue Reading »

The Offering

From the December 2018 Print Edition

The room is full of empty chairs.The gods above break down, distraught.We offer them our thoughts and prayers. Later that week, the Law declaresIn bullet-points we’ve learned a lot.The room is full of empty chairs Persuaded by these solemn airs—And those survivors? They are not.We offer them . . . . Continue Reading »

Wasted Time

From the January 2018 Print Edition

You’d think that after New Year’s boozy kisses,Back-slapping, and effusions in confetti,The last hors-d’oeuvres and passes at the Mrs.Beneath the hanging cardboard amoretti, Time would relax, agree to stay a while,Hang up his sandals, lay aside his shift,And sleep it off until the . . . . Continue Reading »

My Father's Father's Body

From the May 2017 Print Edition

My grandpa built a go-cart out of junk:An old lawnmower engine, scraps of metal, A cupboard door, a cushion. The result Was forty miles-per-hour of swerving joy— Flung gravel, wind-snagged bugs, my father’s arms Vined around mine to help me steer. We gunned it past the neighbors’ humdrum . . . . Continue Reading »

Last Stab at Goodness

From the December 2016 Print Edition

I’ll tell you how to be the perfect man:You do a perfect imitationOf someone who would hesitateTo let the real you through the door.You’ll need to smile and nod, smell decent, planAt least one slideshow-worthy week’s vacation,Lug brats to ballgames and stay late,Skip nightcaps, and never . . . . Continue Reading »

Overcast

From the May 2011 Print Edition

Deep in the country of unbroken clouds, The sundry broken crowds Have wondered for unnumbered years what lies Beyond their numbed gray skies. Some have spun rumors, flimsy as wet straw” A peasant weaver saw Twilled clouds unravel and a golden reed Spike earthward at the speed Of light; a . . . . Continue Reading »