Cancer Dog

Her open wound accuses you. It leaves
its traces in the corner where she sleeps.

She sleeps a lot and rises painfully.
Outside she sniffs at markings. It is spring.

Her limp complains you’ve already begun
to go, that you have gone with the betrayers.

Always in her view you are the arm
that, tied to her, is endlessly receding;

now there is no lead at all to bind you
together, worn apart or else gnawed through.

Dear Reader,

Can I be direct with you?

War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.

First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.

But we can’t do it without readers like you.

Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.


Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.

Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.

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If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.

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