Despair

She’s not the special one you thought
would need protection till the end.
She feeds on quarrel when it’s fraught
with rude clichés meant to offend.
You have conceived and borne a whore
who won’t defend you, on her bed.
Eve’s fruit”sweet juice and rancid core”
she leaves you, with a bobbing head,
to rot in barrelfuls of water
you’ll dump, as she sneaks off to play.
She is your one and only daughter,
who used to spread in every way
on nursery walls her tot’s manure.
And you will die, once she’s mature.

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.


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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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